O WHISTLE, &c.

CHORUS.

O WHISTLE, and I'll come to you, my lad;
O whistle and I'll come to you, my lad:
Tho' father and mither and a' should gae mad,
O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad.

But warily tent, when ye come to court me,
And come na unless the back-yett be a-jee;
Syne up the back-stile, and let nae-body see,
And come as ye were na comin at me.
And come, &c,

O whistle, &c.

At kirk, or at market, whene'er ye meet me, Gang by me as tho' that ye car'd na a flie: But steal me a blink o' your bonie black e'e, Yet look as ye were na lookin at me.

Yet look, &c.

O whistle, &c.

Ay vow and protest that ye care na for me.
And whyles ye may lightly my beauty a wee;
But court na anither, tho' jokin ye be,

For fear that she wyle your fancy frae me.
For fear, &c.

O whistle, &c.

THE YOUNG LASSIE.

WHAT can a young lassie, what shall a young lassie,
What can a young lassie do wi' an auld man?
Bad luck on the pennie that tempted my minnie
To sell her poor Jennie for siller an' lan'!
Bad luck on the penny, &c.

He's always compleenin frae mornin to e'enin,
He hosts and he hirples the weary day lang;
He's doylt and he's dozin, his bluid it is frozen,
O, dreary's the night wi' a crazy auld man!

He hums and he hankers, he frets and he cankers,
I never can please him do a' that I can;
He's peevish and jealous of a' the young fellows,
O, dool on the day I met wi' an auld man!

My auld auntie Katie upon me takes pity,,
I'll do my endeavor to follow her plan;

I'll cross him, and wrack him, until I heart break him

And then his auld brass will buy me a new pan.

MY TOCHER'S THE JEWEL.

O MEIKLE thinks my luve o' my beauty,
And meikle thinks my luve o my kin;
little thinks my luve I ken brawlie,

cher's the jewel has charms for him.

It's a' for the apple he'll nourish the tree,
It's a' for the hinney he'll cherish the bee,
My laddie's sae meikle in luve wi' the siller,
He canna hae luve to spare for me.

Your proffer o' luve's an airl-penny,
My tocher's the bargain ye wad buy;
But an ye be crafty, I am cunnin,

Sae ye wi' anither your fortune maun try.
Ye're like to the timmer o' yon rotten wood,
Ye're like to the bark o' yon rotten tree,
Ye'll slip frae me like a knotless thread,
And ye'll crack your credit wi mae nor me.

THE MERCENARY LOVER.

Tune-"Balinamona ora."

AWA wi' your witchcraft o' beauty's alarms,
The slender bit beauty you grasp in your arms;
O, gie me the lass that has acres o' charms,
O, gie me the lass w the weel-stockit farms

CHORUS.

Then hey for a lass wi' a tocher, then hey for a lass wi' a tocher,

Then hey for a lass wi' a tocher; the nice yellow guineas for me.

Your beauty's a flower, in the morning that blows And withers the faster, the faster it grows;

But the rapturous charm o' the bonie green knowes, Ilk spring they're new deckit wi' bonie white yowes, Then hey, &c.

And e'en when this beauty your bosom has blest, The brightest o' beauty may cloy when possest! But the sweet yellow darlings wi' Geordie imprest, The langer ye hae them-the mair they're carest, Then hey, &c.

MEG O' THE MILL.

Air" O bonie Lass, will you lie in a Barrack?"
O KEN ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten,
An ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten?
She has gotten a coof wi' a claut o' siller,
And broken the heart o' the barley Miller.

The Miller was strappan, the Miller was ruddy!
A heart like a lord, and a hue like a lady:
The laird was a widdiefu', bleerit knurl:
She's left the guid fellow and taen the churl.

The Miller he hecht her a heart leal and loving;
The laird did address her wi' matter mair moving,
A fine pacing horse wi' a clear chained bridle,
A whip by her side, and a bonie side-saddle.

O wae on the siller, it is sae prevailing ; And wae on the love that is fixed on a mailen ! tocher's nae word in a true lover's parle. gie me my love, and a fig for the warl!

AULD ROB MORRIS.

THERE'S auld Rob Morris that wons in yon glen, He's the king o' guid fellows, and wale of auld men He has gowd in his coffers, he has owsen and kine And ae bonie lassie, his darling 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 woer like me mauna 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.

O, had she but been of lower degree,

I then might hae hop'd she wad smil'd upon me O, how past describing had then been my bliss, As now my distraction no words can express.