WHAT CAN A YOUNG LASSIE DO WI’ AN AULD MAN? What can a young lassie, what shall a young lassie, What can a young lassie do wi’ an auld man? Bad luck on the penny that tempted my minnie To sell her poor Jenny for siller an’ lan’! He’s always compleenin’ frae mornin’ to e’enin’, He hosts and he hirples the weary day lang: He’s doylt and he’s dozin, his bluid it is frozen, O, dreary’s the night wi’ a crazy auld man! He hums and he hankers, he frets and he cankers, I never can please him do a’ that I can; He’s peevish, and jealous of a’ the young fellows: O, dool on the day I met wi’ an auld man! My auld auntie Katie upon me takes pity, I’ll do my endeavour to follow her plan; I’ll cross him and rack him, until I heart-break him, And then his auld brass will buy me a new pan. TO THE WEAVERS GIN YE GO My heart was ance as blythe and free As simmer days were lang, But a bonnie westlin weaver lad Has gart me change my sang. To the weavers gin ye go, fair maids, To the weavers gin ye go; I rede you right gang ne’er at night, To the weavers gin ye go. My mither sent me to the town, To warp a plaiden wab; But the weary, weary warpin o’t Has gart me sigh and sab. A bonnie westlin weaver lad Sat working at his loom; He took my heart as wi’ a net, In every knot and thrum. I sat beside my warpin-wheel, And aye I ca’d it roun’; But every shot and every knock, My heart it gae a stoun. The moon was sinking in the west Wi’ visage pale and wan As my bonnie westlin weaver lad Convoy’d me through the glen. But what was said, or what was done, Shame fa’ me gin I tell; But oh! I fear the kintra soon Will ken as weel’s mysel. To the weavers gin ye go, fair maids, To the weavers gin ye go; I rede you right gang ne’er at night, To the weavers gin ye go. ADDRESS TO THE UNCO GUID, OR THE RIGIDLY RIGHTEOUS _My son, these maxims make a rule, And lump them aye thegither: The rigid righteous is a fool, The rigid wise anither: The cleanest corn that e’er was dight, May hae some pyles o’ caff in; So ne’er a fellow-creature slight For random fits o’ daffin._ SOLOMON (Eccles. vii. 16). O ye wha are sae guid yoursel, Sae pious and sae holy, Ye’ve nought to do but mark and tell Your neibour’s fauts and folly! Whase life is like a weel-gaun mill, Supplied wi’ store o’ water: The heaped happer’s ebbing still, And still the clap plays clatter: