As o’er the moor they lightly foor, A burn was clear, a glen was green, Upon the banks they eased their shanks, And aye she set the wheel between: But Duncan swore a haly aith, That Meg should be a bride the morn; Then Meg took up her spinnin’ graith, And flung them a’ out o’er the burn. We’ll big a house—a wee, wee house, And we will live like King and Queen, Sae blythe and merry we will be When ye set by the wheel at e’en. A man may drink and no be drunk; A man may fight and no be slain; A man may kiss a bonnie lass, And aye be welcome back again. AN EXHORTATION TO DAVIE NOT TO FORSAKE THE MUSE AULD NEIBOR ... Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle, Lang may your elbuck jink and diddle, To cheer you through the weary widdle O’ war’ly cares, Till bairns’ bairns kindly cuddle Your auld gray hairs. But Davie, lad, I’m red ye’re glaikit; I’m tauld the Muse ye hae negleckit; An’ gif it’s sae, ye sud be lickit Until ye fyke; Sic hauns as you sud ne’er be faikit, Be hain’t wha like. For me, I’m on Parnassus’ brink, Rivin’ the words to gar them clink; Whyles dazed wi’ love, whyles dazed wi’ drink, Wi’ jads or masons; An’ whyles, but aye owre late, I think Braw sober lessons. Of a’ the thoughtless sons o’ man, Commend me to the Bardie clan; Except it be some idle plan O’ rhymin’ clink, The devil-haet, that I sud ban, They ever think. Nae thought, nae view, nae scheme o’ livin’; Nae cares to gie us joy or grievin’; But just the pouchie put the nieve in, An’ while ought’s there, Then hiltie skiltie, we gae scrievin’, An’ fash nae mair. Leeze me on rhyme! it’s aye a treasure, My chief, amaist my only pleasure; At hame, a-fiel’, at wark, or leisure, The Muse, poor hizzie! Tho’ rough an’ raploch be her measure, She’s seldom lazy. Haud to the Muse, my dainty Davie: The warl’ may play you mony a shavie; But for the Muse, she’ll never leave ye, Tho’ e’er sae puir, Na, even tho’ limpin, wi’ the spavie Frae door to door. WHISTLE, AND I’LL COME TO YOU, MY LAD O whistle, and I’ll come to you, my lad; O whistle, and I’ll come to you, my lad: Tho’ father and mither and a’ should gae mad, O whistle, and I’ll come to you, my lad.