Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and sought me for his bride; But saving a croun he had naething else beside: To make the croun a pund, young Jamie gaed to sea; And the croun and the pund were baith for me. He hadna been awa' a week but only twa, When my father brak his arm, and the cow was stown awa; My mother she fell sick, and my Jamie at the sea-- And auld Robin Gray came a-courtin' me. My father couldna work, and my mother couldna spin; I toil'd day and night, but their bread I couldna win; Auld Rob maintain'd them baith, and wi' tears in his e'e Said, Jennie, for their sakes, O, marry me! My heart it said nay; I look'd for Jamie back; But the wind it blew high, and the ship it was a wrack; His ship it was a wrack--why didna Jamie dee? Or why do I live to cry, Wae's me? My father urgit sair: my mother didna speak; But she look'd in my face till my heart was like to break: They gi'ed him my hand, but my heart was at the sea; Sae auld Robin Gray he was gudeman to me. I hadna been a wife a week but only four, When mournfu' as I sat on the stane at the door, I saw my Jamie's wraith, for I couldna think it he Till he said, I'm come hame to marry thee. O sair, sair did we greet, and muckle did we say; We took but ae kiss, and I bad him gang away; I wish that I were dead, but I'm no like to dee; And why was I born to say, Wae's me! I gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin; I daurna think on Jamie, for that wad be a sin; But I'll do my best a gude wife aye to be, For auld Robin Gray he is kind unto me. _Lady A. Lindsay._ CXCIII _DUNCAN GRAY_ Duncan Gray cam here to woo, Ha, ha, the wooing o't; On blythe Yule night when we were fou, Ha, ha, the wooing o't: Maggie coost her head fu' high, Look'd asklent and unco skeigh, Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh; Ha, ha, the wooing o't! Duncan fleech'd, and Duncan pray'd; Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig; Duncan sigh'd baith out and in, Grat his een baith bleer't and blin', Spak o' lowpin ower a linn! Time and chance are but a tide, Slighted love is sair to bide; Shall I, like a fool, quoth he, For a haughty hizzie dee? She may gae to--France for me! How it comes let doctors tell, Meg grew sick--as he grew well; Something in her bosom wrings, For relief a sigh she brings; And O, her een, they spak sic things! Duncan was a lad o' grace; Maggie's was a piteous case; Duncan couldna be her death, Swelling pity smoor'd his wrath; Now they're crouse and canty baith: Ha, ha, the wooing o't! _R. Burns_ CXCIV _THE SAILOR'S WIFE_