Last May a braw wooer cam down the lang glen, And sair wi’ his love he did deave me: I said there was naething I hated like men— The deuce gae wi’m to believe me, believe me, The deuce gae wi’m to believe me. He spak o’ the darts in my bonnie black een, And vow’d for my love he was dying; I said he might die when he liked for Jean: The Lord forgie me for lying, for lying, The Lord forgie me for lying! A weel-stockèd mailen, himsel’ for the laird, And marriage aff-hand were his proffers: I never loot on that I kend it, or car’d; But thought I might hae waur offers, waur offers, But thought I might hae waur offers. But what wad ye think? in a fortnight or less, The deil tak his taste to gae near her! He up the lang loan to my black cousin Bess, Guess ye how, the jad! I could bear her, could bear her, Guess ye how, the jad! I could bear her. But a’ the niest week as I fretted wi’ care, I gaed to the tryst o’ Dalgarnock; And wha but my fine fickle lover was there? I glowr’d as I’d seen a warlock, a warlock. I glowr’d as I’d seen a warlock. But owre my left shouther I gae him a blink, Lest neebors might say I was saucy; My wooer he caper’d as he’d been in drink, And vow’d I was his dear lassie, dear lassie, And vow’d I was his dear lassie. I spier’d for my cousin fu’ couthy and sweet, Gin she had recover’d her hearin’, And how her new shoon fit her auld shachl’t feet— But, heavens! how he fell a swearin’, a swearin’, But, heavens! how he fell a swearin’. He beggèd for Gudesake I wad be his wife, Or else I wad kill him wi’ sorrow: So e’en to preserve the poor body in life, I think I maun wed him to-morrow, to-morrow, I think I maun wed him to-morrow. I’M OWRE YOUNG TO MARRY YET I am my mammie’s ae bairn, Wi’ unco folk I weary, Sir; And lying in a man’s bed, I’m fley’d wad mak me eerie, Sir. I’m owre young, I’m owre young, I’m owre young to marry yet; I’m owre young, ’twad be a sin To tak me frae my mammie yet. My mammie coft me a new gown, The kirk maun hae the gracing o’t; Were I to lie wi’ you, kind Sir, I’m fear’d ye’d spoil the lacing o’t. Hallowmas is come and gane, The nights are lang in winter, Sir; And you an’ I in ae bed, In troth I dare na venture, Sir. Fu’ loud and shrill the frosty wind Blaws thro’ the leafless timmer, Sir; But if ye come this gate again, I’ll aulder be gin simmer, Sir. I’m owre young, I’m owre young, I’m owre young to marry yet; I’m owre young, ’twad be a sin To tak me frae my mammie yet.