In Tarbolton, ye ken, there are proper young men,
And proper young lasses and a’, man;
But kenye the Ronalds that live in the Bennals,
They carry the greefrae them a’, man.
Their father’s laird, and weel he can spare’t,
Braidmoney to tocherthem a’, man;
To proper young men, he’ll clinkin the hand
Gowdguineas a hunderor twa, man.
There’s anethey ca’Jean, I’ll warrant ye’ve seen
As boniea lass or as braw, man;
But for sense and guid taste she’ll vie wi’ the best,
And a conduct that beautifies a’, man.
The charms o’ the min’, the langer they shine,
The mair admiration they draw, man;
While peaches and cherries, and roses and lilies,
They fade and they wither awa, man,
If ye be for Miss Jean, takthis fraea frien’,
A hint o’ a rival or twa, man;
The Laird o’ Blackbyre wad gangthroughthe fire,
If that wad entice her awa, man.
The Laird o’ Braehead has been on his speed,
For mairthan a towmondor twa, man;
The Lairdo’ the Ford will straughton a board,
If he canna gether at a’, man.
Then Anna comes in, the pride o’ her kin,
The boast of our bachelors a’, man:
Sae sonsyand sweet, sae fully complete,
She steals our affections awa, man.
If I should detail the pick and the wale
O’ lasses that live here awa, man,
The fau’t wadbe mine if they didna shine
The sweetest and best o’ them a’, man.
I lo’e her mysel, but darenaweel tell,
My poverty keeps me in awe, man;
For making o’ rhymes, and working at times,
Does little or naething at a’, man.
Yet I wadnachoose to let her refuse,
Nor hae’t in her power to say na, man:
For though I be poor, unnoticed, obscure,
My stomach’s as proud as them a’, man.
Though I cannaride in weel-booted pride,
And fleeo’er the hills like a craw, man,
I can haudup my head wi’the best o’ the breed,
Though fluttering ever so braw, man.
My coat and my vest, they are Scotch o’ the best,
O’pairs o’ guidbreeksI haetwa, man;
And stockings and pumps to put on my stumps,
And ne’er a wrangsteekin them a’, man.
My sarks they are few, but five o’ them new,
Twal’ hundred, as white as the snaw, man,
A ten-shillings hat, a Holland cravat;
There are nomony poets saebraw, man.
I never had frien’s weelstockit in means,
To leave me a hundred or twa, man;
Naeweel-tocher’d aunts, to wait on their drants,
And wish them in hell for it a’, man.
I never was canniefor hoarding o’money,
Orclaughtin’t together at a’, man;
I’ve little to spend, and naethingto lend,
Butdeevil a shilling I awe, man.