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This lassie had plenty o'wooers,
As beauty an' wealth should hae; This lassie she took her a man,
An' then she could get nae mae. This lassie had plenty o’ weans,
That keepit her hands astir ; And then she dee'd and was buried,
An' there was an end of her.
Sing hey, hickerty dickerty,
Hickerty dickerty dan,
The maist o't that we can!
Was written at the request of Mr Thomson, to the old air bearing that name. But after the verses were written, he would not have them, because they were not good enough. “ He did not like any verses,” he said, “that had the lines ending with O's, and joes, and yets, &c. as they were very poor expedients for making up the measure and rhyme.” He was quite right; but what was a poor fellow to do, tied to a triple rhyme like this ?-The song was afterwards published in the Literary Journal.
My love she's but a lassie yet,
It scarce wad do
To sit an’ woo
Down by the stream sae glassy yet.
MY LOVE SHE'S BUT A LASSIE YET.
But there's a braw time coming yet,
An' hint wi' glee
O' joys to be,
She's neither proud nor saucy yet,'
But just a jinking,
An' right or wrang,
Ere it be lang,
I'm jealous o' what blesses her,
The flowery beds
On which she treads,
Then O to meet my lassie yet, Up in yon glen sae grassy yet;
For all I see
Are nought to me, Save her that's but a lassie yet! THE MOON.
Here, sir, tak the prospeck, an’gie's a screed o' philosophy, for I'm gaun to gie ye anither sang.
Now fare-ye-weel, bonny Lady Moon,
Wi' thy still look o majestye;
'Tis e'en a fearsome sight to see.
Your mouth a dark unmeasured dell;
Fringed with the brier an' heather-bell.
Yet still thou bear'st a human face,
Of calm an' ghostly dignity;