Page:Scots medley (3).pdf/7

 Then to his bags he flew wi’ speed, About the drone he twisted; Meg up, and wallop’d o’er the green, For brawly cou’d she frisk it. Well done, quo’ he; Play up, quo’ she, Well bobb’d, quo’ Rob the ranter; It’s worth my while to play indeed, When I ha’e sic a dancer.

Well ha’e you play’d your part, quo’ Meg, Your cheeks are like the crimson; There’s nane in Scotland plays sae weel, Since we lost Habby Simson. I’ve liv’d in Fife, baith maid and wife, These ten years and a quarter; Gin you should come to Anst’er fair, Spier ye for Maggy Lauder.

O Bessy Bell and Mary Gray, They war’ twa bonny lasses, They bigg’d a bow’r on yon burn brae, And theek’d it o’er wi’ rashes.

Fair Bessy Bell I lo’ed yestreen, And thought I ne’er cou’d alter, But Mary Gray’s, twa pawky e’en, They gar my fancy falter.

Now Bessy’s hair’s like a lint-tap; She smiles like a May morning: When Phœbus starts frae Thetis’ lap, The hills with rays adorning.