Her mither then hastily spak:—­
“The lassie is glaikit wi’ pride;
In my pouch I had never a plack
On the day when I was a bride. 
E’en tak’ to your wheel and be clever,
And draw out your thread in the sun;
The gear that is gifted, it never
Will last like the gear that is won. 
Woo’d and married and a’! 
Wi’ havins and tocher sae sma’! 
I think ye are very weel aff
To be woo’d and married at a’!”

“Toot, toot!” quo’ her gray-headed faither,
“She’s less o’ a bride than a bairn;
She’s ta’en like a cout frae the heather,
Wi’ sense and discretion to learn. 
Half husband, I trow, and half daddy,
As humor inconstantly leans,
The chiel maun be patient and steady
That yokes wi’ a mate in her teens. 
A kerchief sae douce and sae neat,
O’er her locks that the wind used to blaw! 
I’m baith like to laugh and to greet
When I think o’ her married at a’.”

Then out spak’ the wily bridegroom,
Weel waled were his wordies I ween:—­
“I’m rich, though my coffer be toom,
Wi’ the blinks o’ your bonny blue e’en. 
I’m prouder o’ thee by my side,
Though thy ruffles or ribbons be few,
Than if Kate o’ the Croft were my bride,
Wi’ purfles and pearlins enow. 
Dear and dearest of ony! 
Ye’re woo’d and buiket and a’! 
And do ye think scorn o’ your Johnny,
And grieve to be married at a’?”

She turn’d, and she blush’d, and she smil’d,
And she looket sae bashfully down;
The pride o’ her heart was beguil’d,
And she played wi’ the sleeves o’ her gown;
She twirlet the tag o’ her lace,
And she nippet her bodice sae blue,
Syne blinket sae sweet in his face,
And aff like a maukin she flew. 
Woo’d and married and a’! 
Wi’ Johnny to roose her and a’! 
She thinks hersel’ very weel aff
To be woo’d and married at a’!

IT WAS ON A MORN WHEN WE WERE THRANG

It was on a morn when we were thrang,
The kirn it croon’d, the cheese was making,
And bannocks on the girdle baking,
When ane at the door chapp’t loud and lang. 
Yet the auld gudewife, and her mays sae tight,
Of a’ this bauld din took sma’ notice I ween;
For a chap at the door in braid daylight
Is no like a chap that’s heard at e’en.

     But the docksy auld laird of the Warlock glen,
        Wha waited without, half blate, half cheery,
        And langed for a sight o’ his winsome deary,
     Raised up the latch and cam’ crousely ben. 
     His coat it was new, and his o’erlay was white,
       His mittens and hose were cozie and bien;
     But a wooer that comes in braid daylight
       Is no like a wooer that comes at e’en.

     He greeted the carline and lasses sae braw,
        And his bare lyart pow sae smoothly he straikit,
        And he looket about, like a body half glaikit,
     On bonny sweet Nanny, the youngest of a’. 
     “Ha, laird!” quo’ the carline, “and look ye that way? 
       Fye, let na’ sie fancies bewilder you clean: 
     An elderlin man, in the noon o’ the day,
       Should be wiser than youngsters that come at e’en.