Behind yonhills where Lugar flows, 'Mang moors an' mosses many, O, The wintry sun the day has clos'd, And I'll awato Nanie, O. The westlinwind blaws loud an' shill; The night's baithmirkand rainy, O; But I'll getmy plaid an' out I'll steal, An' owrethe hill to Nanie, O. My Nanie's charming, sweet, an' young; Nae
Lament in rhyme, lament in prose, Wi' sauttears trickling down your nose; Our bardie's fate is at a close, Past a' remead! The last, sad cape-stane o' his woes; Poor Mailie's dead! It's nothe loss o' warl's gear, That could saebitter draw the tear, Ormakour bardie, dowie, wear The mourning weed: He's lost a friend
Now westlinwinds and slaught'ring guns Bring Autumn's pleasant weather; The moorcock springs on whirring wings Amangthe blooming heather: Now waving grain, wide o'er the plain, Delights the weary farmer; And the moon shines bright, when I rove at night, To muse upon my charmer. The partridge loves the fruitful fells, The plover loves the mountains;
It was upon a Lammas night, When corn rigs are bonie, Beneath the moon's unclouded light, I held awato Annie; The time flew by, wi' tentlessheed, Till, 'tween the late and early, Wi' sma'persuasion she agreed To see me thro' the barley. Corn rigs, an' barley rigs, An' corn rigs are bonie: I'll ne'er forget
"Wha is that at my bower-door?" "O whais it butFindlay!" "Then gaeyour gate, ye'senaebe here:" "Indeed maun I," quo' Findlay; "What mak' ye, saelike a thief?" "O come and see," quo' Findlay; "Before the morn ye'll work mischief:" "Indeed will I," quo' Findlay. "Gif I rise and let you in"- "Let me in," quo' Findlay;
As Mailie, an' her lambs thegither, Was aeday nibbling on the tether, Upon her clootshe coosta hitch, An' owreshe warsl'd in the ditch: There, groaning, dying, she did lie, When Hughoc he camdoytinby. Wi' glowrin een, and lifted han's Poor Hughoclike a statue stan's; He sawher days were near-hand ended, But, wae's my heart! he