My Wife’s A Winsome Wee Thing

     Air—­“My Wife’s a Wanton Wee Thing.”

     Chorus.—­She is a winsome wee thing,
     She is a handsome wee thing,
     She is a lo’esome wee thing,
     This dear wee wife o’ mine.

     I never saw a fairer,
     I never lo’ed a dearer,
     And neist my heart I’ll wear her,
     For fear my jewel tine,
     She is a winsome, &c.

     The warld’s wrack we share o’t;
     The warstle and the care o’t;
     Wi’ her I’ll blythely bear it,
     And think my lot divine. 
     She is a winsome, &c.

Highland Mary

     Tune—­“Katherine Ogie.”

     Ye banks, and braes, and streams around
     The castle o’ Montgomery! 
     Green be your woods, and fair your flowers,
     Your waters never drumlie: 
     There Simmer first unfauld her robes,
     And there the langest tarry;
     For there I took the last Farewell
     O’ my sweet Highland Mary.

     How sweetly bloom’d the gay, green birk,
     How rich the hawthorn’s blossom,
     As underneath their fragrant shade,
     I clasp’d her to my bosom! 
     The golden Hours on angel wings,
     Flew o’er me and my Dearie;
     For dear to me, as light and life,
     Was my sweet Highland Mary.

     Wi’ mony a vow, and lock’d embrace,
     Our parting was fu’ tender;
     And, pledging aft to meet again,
     We tore oursels asunder;
     But oh! fell Death’s untimely frost,
     That nipt my Flower sae early! 
     Now green’s the sod, and cauld’s the clay
     That wraps my Highland Mary!

     O pale, pale now, those rosy lips,
     I aft hae kiss’d sae fondly! 
     And clos’d for aye, the sparkling glance
     That dwalt on me sae kindly! 
     And mouldering now in silent dust,
     That heart that lo’ed me dearly! 
     But still within my bosom’s core
     Shall live my Highland Mary.

Auld Rob Morris

     There’s Auld Rob Morris that wons in yon glen,
     He’s the King o’ gude fellows, and wale o’ auld men;
     He has gowd in his coffers, he has owsen and kine,
     And ae bonie lass, his dautie and mine.

     She’s fresh as the morning, the fairest in May;
     She’s sweet as the ev’ning amang the new hay;
     As blythe and as artless as the lambs on the lea,
     And dear to my heart as the light to my e’e.

     But oh! she’s an Heiress, auld Robin’s a laird,
     And my daddie has nought but a cot-house and yard;
     A wooer like me maunna hope to come speed,
     The wounds I must hide that will soon be my dead.

     The day comes to me, but delight brings me nane;
     The night comes to me, but my rest it is gane;
     I wander my lane like a night-troubled ghaist,
     And I sigh as my heart it wad burst in my breast.