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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 best thing in life is to make

The maist o't that we can!

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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,
A lightsome lovely 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.

231

But there's a braw time coming yet,
When we may gang a-roaming yet;

An' hint wi' glee

O' joys to be,
When fa’s the modest gloaming yet.

She's neither proud nor saucy yet,'
She's neither plump nor gaucy yet;

But just a jinking,

Bonny blinking,
Hilty-skilty lassie yet.
But O her artless smile's mair sweet
Than hinny or than marmalete;

An' right or wrang,

Ere it be lang,
I'll bring her to a parley yet.

I'm jealous o' what blesses her,
The very breeze that kisses her,

The flowery beds

On which she treads,
Though wae for ane that misses her.

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.

SHEPHERD.

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;
For though ye hae a queenly face,

'Tis e'en a fearsome sight to see.
Your lip is like Ben-Lomond's base,

Your mouth a dark unmeasured dell;
Your eebrow like the Grampian range,

Fringed with the brier an' heather-bell.

Yet still thou bear'st a human face,

Of calm an' ghostly dignity;

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