Duncan sigh'd baith out and in,

Grat his een baith bleer't and blin',
Spak o' lowpin o'er a linn;

Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

Time and chance are but a tide,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't,
Slighted love is sair to bide,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.
Shall I, like a fool, quoth he,
For a haughty hizzie dee?

She may gae to-France for me,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

How it comes let doctors tell.

Ha, ha, the wooing o't,
Meg grew sick-as he grew well,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.
Something in her bosom wrings,

For relief a sigh she brings;

And O, her een, they spak sic things!

Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

Duncan was a lad o' grace,

Ha, ha, the wooing o't,
Maggie's was a piteous case,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.
Duncan couldna be her death,
Swelling pity smoor'd his wrath;

Now they're crouse and cantie baith,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

Burns,

THE BAILIFF'S DAUGHTER OF

ISLINGTON.

THERE

HERE was a youth,

and a well-beloved youth,

And he was a squire's son;

He loved the bailiff's daughter dear

That lived in Islington.

Yet she was coy, and would not believe
That he did love her so.

No; nor at any time would she
Any countenance to him show.

But when his friends did understand
His fond and foolish mind,

They sent him up to fair London

An apprentice for to bind.

And when he had been seven long years,

And never his love could see:

"Many a tear have I shed for her sake, When she little thought of me."

Then all the maids of Islington
Went forth to sport and play,
All but the bailiff's daughter dear-
She secretly stole away.

She pulled off her gown of green,
And put on ragged attire,

And to fair London she would go,
Her true love to inquire.

And as she went along the high road,
The weather being hot and dry,
She sat her down upon a green bank,
And her true love came riding by.

She started up, with a colour so red,
Catching hold of his bridle-rein;

"One penny, one penny, kind sir," she said, "Will ease me of much pain."

"Before I give you one penny, sweetheart, Pray tell me where you were born?" "At Islington, kind sir," said she,

"Where I have had many a scorn."

"I pr'ythee, sweetheart, then tell to me,
O tell me, whether you know
The bailiff's daughter of Islington?"
"She is dead, sir, long ago."