389. Song—Duncan Gray

by
 DUNCAN GRAY cam’ here to woo,
 Ha, ha, the wooing o’t,
On blythe Yule-night when we were fou,
 Ha, ha, the wooing o’t,
Maggie coost her head fu’ heigh,
Look’d asklent and unco skeigh,
Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh;
 Ha, ha, the wooing o’t.
Duncan fleech’d and Duncan pray’d; Ha, ha, the wooing o’t, Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig, Ha, ha, the wooing o’t: Duncan sigh’d baith out and in, Grat his e’en baith blear’t an’ blin’, Spak o’ lowpin o’er a linn; Ha, ha, the wooing o’t.
Time and Chance are but a tide, Ha, ha, the wooing o’t, Slighted love is sair to bide, Ha, ha, the wooing o’t: Shall I like a fool, quoth he, For a haughty hizzie die? She may gae to—France for me! Ha, ha, the wooing o’t.
How it comes let doctors tell, Ha, ha, the wooing o’t; Meg grew sick, as he grew hale, Ha, ha, the wooing o’t.
Something in her bosom wrings, For relief a sigh she brings: And oh! her een they spak sic things! Ha, ha, the wooing o’t.
Duncan was a lad o’ grace, Ha, ha, the wooing o’t: Maggie’s was a piteous case, Ha, ha, the wooing o’t: Duncan could na be her death, Swelling Pity smoor’d his wrath; Now they’re crouse and canty baith, Ha, ha, the wooing o’t.

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