His coat is the hue o’ his bonnet sae blue,
     His fecket is white as the new-driven snaw;
     His hose they are blae, and his shoon like the slae,
     And his clear siller buckles, they dazzle us a’.

     For beauty and fortune the laddie’s been courtin;
     Weel-featur’d, weel-tocher’d, weel-mounted an’ braw;
     But chiefly the siller that gars him gang till her,
     The penny’s the jewel that beautifies a’.

     There’s Meg wi’ the mailen that fain wad a haen him,
     And Susie, wha’s daddie was laird o’ the Ha’;
     There’s lang-tocher’d Nancy maist fetters his fancy,
     —­But the laddie’s dear sel’, he loes dearest of a’.

Whistle O’er The Lave O’t

     First when Maggie was my care,
     Heav’n, I thought, was in her air,
     Now we’re married—­speir nae mair,
     But whistle o’er the lave o’t!

     Meg was meek, and Meg was mild,
     Sweet and harmless as a child—­
     Wiser men than me’s beguil’d;
     Whistle o’er the lave o’t!

     How we live, my Meg and me,
     How we love, and how we gree,
     I care na by how few may see—­
     Whistle o’er the lave o’t!

     Wha I wish were maggot’s meat,
     Dish’d up in her winding-sheet,
     I could write—­but Meg maun see’t—­
     Whistle o’er the lave o’t!

My Eppie Adair

     Chorus.—­An’ O my Eppie, my jewel, my Eppie,
     Wha wad na be happy wi’ Eppie Adair?

     By love, and by beauty, by law, and by duty,
     I swear to be true to my Eppie Adair! 
     By love, and by beauty, by law, and by duty,
     I swear to be true to my Eppie Adair! 
     And O my Eppie, &c.

     A’ pleasure exile me, dishonour defile me,
     If e’er I beguile ye, my Eppie Adair! 
     A’ pleasure exile me, dishonour defile me,
     If e’er I beguile thee, my Eppie Adair! 
     And O my Eppie, &c.

On The Late Captain Grose’s Peregrinations Thro’ Scotland

     Collecting The Antiquities Of That Kingdom

     Hear, Land o’ Cakes, and brither Scots,
     Frae Maidenkirk to Johnie Groat’s;—­
     If there’s a hole in a’ your coats,
     I rede you tent it: 
     A chield’s amang you takin notes,
     And, faith, he’ll prent it: 

     If in your bounds ye chance to light
     Upon a fine, fat fodgel wight,
     O’ stature short, but genius bright,
     That’s he, mark weel;
     And wow! he has an unco sleight
     O’ cauk and keel.

     By some auld, houlet-haunted biggin,
     Or kirk deserted by its riggin,
     It’s ten to ane ye’ll find him snug in
     Some eldritch part,
     Wi’ deils, they say, Lord save’s! colleaguin
     At some black art.