Air,—" Whistle owre the lave o't."
O LASSIE, will ye tak a man,
Rich in housin, gear, an lan ?
Deil tak the cash ! that I soud ban,—
Nae mair I'll be the slave o't.
I'll buy you claise tae busk you braw,
A ridin pownie, pad an a ;
On fashion's tap we'll drive awa,
Whip, spur, an a the lave o't.
Oh, poortith is a wintry day !
Cheerless, blirtie, caul, an blae,
But baskin under Fortune's ray,
There's joy whate'er ye'd have o't.
Then gie's your han, ye'Il be my wife,
I'll mak you happy a your life ;
We'll row in luve and siller rife,
Till death win up the lave o't.
[Semple 81]