Here’s to thy health, my bonie lass,
     Gude nicht and joy be wi’ thee;
     I’ll come nae mair to thy bower-door,
     To tell thee that I lo’e thee. 
     O dinna think, my pretty pink,
     But I can live without thee: 
     I vow and swear I dinna care,
     How lang ye look about ye.

     Thou’rt aye sae free informing me,
     Thou hast nae mind to marry;
     I’ll be as free informing thee,
     Nae time hae I to tarry: 
     I ken thy frien’s try ilka means
     Frae wedlock to delay thee;
     Depending on some higher chance,
     But fortune may betray thee.

     I ken they scorn my low estate,
     But that does never grieve me;
     For I’m as free as any he;
     Sma’ siller will relieve me. 
     I’ll count my health my greatest wealth,
     Sae lang as I’ll enjoy it;
     I’ll fear nae scant, I’ll bode nae want,
     As lang’s I get employment.

     But far off fowls hae feathers fair,
     And, aye until ye try them,
     Tho’ they seem fair, still have a care;
     They may prove waur than I am. 
     But at twal’ at night, when the moon shines bright,
     My dear, I’ll come and see thee;
     For the man that loves his mistress weel,
     Nae travel makes him weary.

Lass Of Cessnock Banks, The^1

     [Footnote 1:  The lass is identified as Ellison Begbie, a servant
      wench, daughter of a “Farmer Lang".]

     A Song of Similes

     Tune—­“If he be a Butcher neat and trim.”

     On Cessnock banks a lassie dwells;
     Could I describe her shape and mein;
     Our lasses a’ she far excels,
     An’ she has twa sparkling roguish een.

     She’s sweeter than the morning dawn,
     When rising Phoebus first is seen,
     And dew-drops twinkle o’er the lawn;
     An’ she has twa sparkling roguish een.

     She’s stately like yon youthful ash,
     That grows the cowslip braes between,
     And drinks the stream with vigour fresh;
     An’ she has twa sparkling roguish een.

     She’s spotless like the flow’ring thorn,
     With flow’rs so white and leaves so green,
     When purest in the dewy morn;
     An’ she has twa sparkling roguish een.

     Her looks are like the vernal May,
     When ev’ning Phoebus shines serene,
     While birds rejoice on every spray;
     An’ she has twa sparkling roguish een.

     Her hair is like the curling mist,
     That climbs the mountain-sides at e’en,
     When flow’r-reviving rains are past;
     An’ she has twa sparkling roguish een.

     Her forehead’s like the show’ry bow,
     When gleaming sunbeams intervene
     And gild the distant mountain’s brow;
     An’ she has twa sparkling roguish een.