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THE POOR MAN.

The air of this song is my own, and is to be found in The Border Garland, with accompaniments by Dewar-Mr Purdie's edition.

Loose the yett, an' let me in,

Lady wi' the glistening ee,
Dinna let your menial train

Drive an auld man out to dee.

Cauldrife is the winter even,

See, the rime hangs at my chin
Lady, for the sake of Heaven,

Loose the yett, an' let me in!

Ye shall gain a virgin hue,

Lady, for your courtesye,
Ever beaming, ever new,

Aye to bloom an' ne'er to dee.

Lady, there's a lovely plain

Lies beyond yon setting sun, There we soon may meet again

Short the race we hae to run.

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'Tis a land of love an' light;

Rank or title is not there,

High an' low maun there unite,

Poor man, prince, an' lady fair; There, what thou on earth hast given,

Doubly shall be paid again! Lady, for the sake of Heaven,

Loose the yett, an' let me in !

Blessings rest upon thy head,

Lady of this lordly ha'! That bright tear that thou didst shed

Fell nae down amang the snaw It is gane to heaven aboon,

To the fount of charitye; When thy days on earth are done, That blest drop shall plead for thee THE WOMEN FO’K.

The air of this song is my own. It was first set to music by Heather, and most beautifully set too. It was afterwards set by Dewar, whether with the same accompaniments or not, I have forgot. It is my own favourite humor. ous song, when forced to sing by ladies against my will, which too frequently happens; and, notwithstanding my wood-notes wild, it will never be sung by any so well again. - For the air, see the Border Garland.

O SAIRLY may I rue the day

I fancied first the womenkind;
For aye sinsyne I ne'er can hae

Ae quiet thought or peace o’mind!
They hae plagued my heart an' pleased my ee,

An' teased an' flatter'd me at will,
But aye, for a' their witcherye,

The pawky things I lo'e them still.

O the women fo'k! O the women fo'k!

But they hae been the wreck o' me;
O weary fa’ the women fo’k,

For they winna let a body be!

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I hae thought an' thought, but darena tell,

I've studied them wi' a' my skill, I've lo’ed them better than mysell,

I've tried again to like them ill. Wha sairest strives, will sairest rue,

To comprehend what nae man can ; When he has done what man can do, He'll end at last where he began.

O the women fo’k, &c.

That they hae gentle forms an’ meet,

A man wi' half a look may see; An' gracefu' airs, an' faces sweet,

An' waving curls aboon the bree; An' smiles as soft as the young rose-bud,

An’ een sae pawky, bright, an' rare, Wad lure the laverock frae the cludd But, laddie, seek to ken nae mair!

O the women fo'k, &c.

Even but this night nae farther gane,

The date is neither lost nor lang,

I tak ye witness ilka ane,

How fell they fought, and fairly dang. Their point they've carried right or wrang,

Without a reason, rhyme, or law, An' forced a man to sing a sang, That ne'er could sing a verse ava, O the women fo’k! O the women fo'k!

But they hae been the wreck o' me; O weary fa' the women fo’k,

For they winna let a body be!

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