Poems & songs . Damons heart beat time, Sir. AULD ROB MORRIS. Theres auld Rob Morris that wons in yon glen,Hes the king o guid fellows and wale of auld men;He has gowd in his coffers, he has owsen and kine,And ae bonnie lassie, his darling and mine. Shes fresh as the morning, the fairest in May;Shes sweet as the evning amang the new hay ;As blithe and as artless as lambs on the lea,And dear to my heart as the light to my ee. But oh! shes an heiress,—auld Robins a laird,And my daddie has nought but a cot-house and yard;A wooer like me maunna hope to come speed;The wounds I must hide that will s
Poems & songs . Damons heart beat time, Sir. AULD ROB MORRIS. Theres auld Rob Morris that wons in yon glen,Hes the king o guid fellows and wale of auld men;He has gowd in his coffers, he has owsen and kine,And ae bonnie lassie, his darling and mine. Shes fresh as the morning, the fairest in May;Shes sweet as the evning amang the new hay ;As blithe and as artless as lambs on the lea,And dear to my heart as the light to my ee. But oh! shes an heiress,—auld Robins a laird,And my daddie has nought but a cot-house and yard;A wooer like me maunna hope to come speed;The wounds I must hide that will soon be my dead. The day comes to me, but delight brings me nane;The night comes to me, but my rest it is gane :I wander my lane like a night-troubld ghaist,And I sigh as my heart it wad burst in my breast. O TIBBIE, I HAE SEEN THE DA Y. 291 0 had she but been of a lower degree, 1 then might hae hopd shed hae smild upon me!0, how past describing had then been my bliss,As now my distraction no words can express!. O TIBBIE, I HAE SEEN THE DAY. Tune—Invercaulds reel. O Tibbie, I hae seen the day,Ye wadna been sae shy; For laik o gear ye lightly me,But, trowth, I care na by. Yestreen I met you on the moor,Ye spak na, but gaed by like stoure;Ye geek at me because Im poor,But fient a hair care I. SONGS BY ROBERT BURNS. I doubt na, lass, but ye may think,Because ye hae the name o clink,That ye can please me at a wink,Wheneer ye like to try. But sorrow tak him thats sae mean,Altho his pouch o coin were clean,Wha follows ony saucy queanThat looks sae proud and high. Altho a lad were eer sae smart,If that he want the yellow dirt,Yell cast your head anither airt,And answer him fu dry. But if he hae the name o gear,Yell fasten to him like a brier,Tho hardly he, for sense or lear,Be better than the kye. But, Tibbie, lass, tak my advice,Your daddies gear maks you sae nice;The deil a ane wad spier your price,Were ye as poor as I. There lives a lass in yonder park,I would nae gie her in her
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Keywords: ., bookauthorburnsrob, bookcentury1800, bookdecade1870, bookyear1875
