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6. The Tarbolton Lasses

 IF ye gae up to yon hill-tap,
 Ye’ll there see bonie Peggy;
She kens her father is a laird,
 And she forsooth’s a leddy.
There Sophy tight, a lassie bright, Besides a handsome fortune: Wha canna win her in a night, Has little art in courtin’.
Gae down by Faile, and taste the ale, And tak a look o’ Mysie; She’s dour and din, a deil within, But aiblins she may please ye.
If she be shy, her sister try, Ye’ll maybe fancy Jenny; If ye’ll dispense wi’ want o’ sense— She kens hersel she’s bonie.
As ye gae up by yon hillside, Speir in for bonie Bessy; She’ll gie ye a beck, and bid ye light, And handsomely address ye.
There’s few sae bonie, nane sae guid, In a’ King George’ dominion; If ye should doubt the truth o’ this— It’s Bessy’s ain opinion!

Poem by Robert Burns
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