But warily tent, when ye come to court me, And come na unless the back-yett be a-jee; Syne up the back-stile, and let naebody see, And come as ye were na comin’ to me, And come as ye were na comin’ to me. At kirk, or at market, whene’er ye meet me, Gang by me as tho’ that ye car’d na a flee: But steal me a blink o’ your bonnie black e’e— Yet look as ye were na lookin’ at me, Yet look as ye were na lookin’ at me. Aye vow and protest that ye care na for me, And whiles ye may lightly my beauty a wee; But court na anither’ tho’ jokin’ ye be, For fear that she wyle your fancy frae me, For fear that she wyle your fancy frae me. THE RANTIN’ DOG THE DADDIE O’T O wha my babie-clouts will buy? Wha will tent me when I cry? Wha will kiss me whare I lie? The rantin’ dog the daddie o’t. Wha will own he did the faut? Wha will buy my groanin’ maut? Wha will tell me how to ca’t? The rantin’ dog the daddie o’t. When I mount the creepie-chair, Wha will sit beside me there? Gie me Rob, I seek nae mair, The rantin’ dog the daddie o’t. Wha will crack to me my lane? Wha will mak me fidgin’ fain? Wha will kiss me o’er again? The rantin’ dog the daddie o’t. MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN When chill November’s surly blast Made fields and forests bare, One ev’ning as I wander’d forth Along the banks of Ayr, I spied a man, whose agèd step Seem’d weary, worn with care; His face was furrow’d o’er with years, And hoary was his hair. ‘Young stranger, whither wand’rest thou?’ Began the rev’rend sage; ‘Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain, Or youthful pleasure’s rage? Or, haply, prest with cares and woes, Too soon thou hast began To wander forth with me to mourn The miseries of man. ‘The sun that overhangs yon moors, Out-spreading far and wide, Where hundreds labour to support A haughty lordling’s pride— I’ve seen yon weary winter-sun Twice forty times return, And ev’ry time has added proofs That man was made to mourn. ‘O man! while in thy early years, How prodigal of time! Mis-spending all thy precious hours, Thy glorious youthful prime! Alternate follies take the sway; Licentious passions burn; Which tenfold force give nature’s law, That man was made to mourn. ‘Look not alone on youthful prime, Or manhood’s active might; Man then is useful to his kind, Supported is his right; But see him on the edge of life, With cares and sorrows worn, Then age and want, oh! ill-match’d pair! Show man was made to mourn.