"Watt o' the Hill cam' doun the brae,
Trigly buskit frae tap to tae,
Ridin' fu' crouse on his dappled grey--
Wattie wis fidgin' fain;
'An', aye,' quo' he, 'whate'er betide,
Some canty bit lass I'll mak' my bride,
For winter is comin'--my bed's o'er wide--
I'll lie nae mair my lane.'
"Wattie gaed hoddlin' to the mill.
'Here's routh,' quo' he, 'to woo at will,
Jenny an' Meg an' Bess an' Lill,
Tibbie an' Kate an' Jane.
Lasses,--I'm here a wooer to woo,
Will ane o' ye come an' be my doo?
I've siller, an' lan', an' mony a coo--
I'm tired o' lyin' my lane.'
"The lasses skirled a loud 'tee hee!'
But ilka ane cried, 'wull ye tak me?'
Better an' auld man's dawtie be,
Wi' walth o' gear, than nane.
'Wattie,' quo' they, 'just steek yer een,
Grip wha ye like, she'll ne'er compleen;
_Better a cuttie than wantin' a speen_--
Ye'se lie nae mair yer lane.'"
"Noo, my sang's deen," quo Inglis; "I've the ca'
To keep the pottie boilin'. Come awa,
Lundie, my man, an' gie's your winsome Jean;
Begin at ance--the seener ye'll be deen."
"Inglis, wha yokes wi' you's a gowk, atweel!
'He needs a lang speen that sups wi' the deil!'
But, troth, 'twere wrang to gar ye sup yer kail
A wee thocht hetter than I wud mysel':--