BALLAD LXIV.

MARGET O' THE MILL.

TUNE,-" Tom Starboard."

HER fadder's whope, her mudder's preyde,
Was black-ey'd Marget o' the Mill,
And summer day, or winter neet,
Was happy, chearfu', busy still;
And Ralph, her fadder, oft declar'd,
His darlin forty punds shou'd have
The day a husban tuik her han,

And mair, if lang he sceap'd the greave.

The lily and the deyke-rwose beath,
Wer mix'd in Marget's bonny feace;
Her form mud win the cauldest heart,
And her's was Nature's modest greace:

Her luik drew monie a neybor laird,

Her een luive's piercin arrows fir'd; But nae rich laird cud gain the han O' this fair flow'r, by aw admir'd.

Oh, luckless hour! at town ae day,
Yen in a soldier's dress she saw;
He stule her heart, and frae that hour
May Marget date a leyfe of woe:

For now she shuns aw roun the mill,
Nae langer to her bosom dear;
And faded is her bonny feace,

And dim her e'e wi' monie a tear.

Peer Marget! yence a fadder's preyde, Is now widout a fadder left; Deserted, aw day lang she moans, Luive's victim, of ilk whope bereft!

Ye lasses, aw seducers shun,

And think o' Marget o' the Mill; She, crazy, daunders wid her bairn, A prey to luive and sorrow still.

BALLAD LXV.

MADAM JANE.

TUNE," I will ha'e a wife.”

MONEY meks us bonny,

Money meks us glad;
Be she auld or ugly,
Money brings a lad.

When I'd ne'er a penny,

Deil a lad had I;

Pointin ay at Jenny,
Laughin, they flew by.

Money causes flatt'ry,
Money meks us vain;
Money changes aw things-
Now I'm MADAM JANE!

Sin auld Robby left me
Houses, fields, nit few,

Lads thrang round i' clusters-
I'm a beauty now!

Money meks us merry,
Money meks us bra';
Money gets us sweethearts-
That's the best of a'!

I ha'e fat and slender,
I ha'e short and tall;

I ha'e rake and miser-
I despise them all!

Money they're aw seeking,
Money they's get neane;

Money sends them sneaking
Efter MADAM JANE!

There's ane puir and bashfu',

I ha'e i' my e'e;

He's get han' and siller,
Gin he fancies me.

Money meks us bonny,

Money meks us glad;

Be she leame and lazy,

Money brings a lad.

January 6, 1807.

BALLAD LXVI.

YOUNG SUSY.

TUNE," Dainty Davie."

YOUNG SUSY is a bonny lass,

A canny lass, a teydey lass,

A mettled lass, a hearty lass,

As onie yen can see;

A clean-heel'd lass, a weel-spok lass,
A buik-larn'd lass, a kurk-gawn lass,
I watena how its come to pass,

She's meade a fuil o' me.

I's tir'd o' workin-plowin, sowin,
Deetin, deykin, threshin, mowin;
Seeghin, greanin, never knowin
What I's gawn to de.

I met her-aye, twas this day week!
Od die! thought I, I'll try to speak!
But tried in vain the teale to seek,

For sec a lass is she;

Her jet-black hair hawf hides her brow,
Her een just thirl yen thro' and thro'-
But, Oh! her cheeks and cherry mou
Are far owre sweet to see!

I's tir'd o' workin, &c.

Oh, cou'd I put her in a sang!
To hear her praise the heale day lang,
She mud consent to kurk to gang;

There's puirer fwok than me!
But I can nowther rhyme nor rave,
Luive meks yeù sec a coward slave;
I'd better far sleep i' my grave,
But, Oh! that munnet be!

I's tir'd o' workin-plowin, sowin,
Deetin, deykin, threshin, mowin;
Seeghin, greanin, never knowin

What I's gawn to de.

January 6, 1807.