A Song, pp.138-140.

[Tea-Table Miscellany Contents]

To its own Tune


IN January last, 

On munanday at morn, 

As through the fields I past, 

To view the winter corn, 

I looked me behind, 

And saw come o’er the know, 

Ane glancing in her apron, 

With a bony brent brow. 


I said, good morrow, fair maid; 

And she right courteously 

Return’d a beck, and kindly said, 

Good day sweet sir, to you. 

I spear’d, my dear, how far awa 

Do ye intend to gae. 

Quoth she, I mean a mile or twa, 

Out o’er yon broomy brae. 



Fair maid, I’m thankfu’ to my fate, 

To have sic company; 

For I am ganging straight that gate, 

Where ye intend to be. 

When we had gane a mile or twain, 

I said, to her my dow, 

May we not lean us on this plain, 

And kiss your bony mou. 



Kind Sir, ye are a wi mistane; 

For I am nane of these, 

I hope ye some mair breeding ken, 

Than to ruffle woman’s claise: 

For may be I have chosen ane, 

And plighted him my vow, 

Wha may do wi me what he likes, 

And kiss my bony mou. 



Na, if ye are contracted, 

I hae nae mair to say: 

Rather than be rejected, 

I will gie o’er the play; 

And chuse anither will respect 

My love, and on me rew; 

And let me clasp her round the neck, 

And kiss her bony mou. 



O sir, ye are proud-hearted, 

And laith to be said nay, 

Else wad ne’er a started 

For ought that I did say: 

For women in their modesty 

At first they winna bow; 

But if we like your company, 

We’ll prove as kind as you. 

Old Songs

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