' haud a rant, an' a' that.

MARRIAGE, AND THE CARE O'T.

TUNE--_"Whistle o'er the lave o't."_

Quoth Rab to Kate, My sonsy dear,
I 've woo'd ye mair than half a-year,
An' if ye 'd wed me, ne'er cou'd speer
Wi' blateness, an' the care o't.
Now to the point: sincere I 'm we 't;
Will ye be my half-marrow sweet?
Shake han's, and say a bargain be 't,
An' ne'er think on the care o't.

Na, na, quo' Kate, I winna wed,
O' sic a snare I 'll aye be rede;
How mony, thochtless, are misled
By marriage, an' the care o't!
A single life 's a life o' glee,
A wife ne'er think to mak' o' me,
Frae toil an' sorrow I 'll keep free,
An' a' the dool an' care o't.

Weel, weel, said Robin, in reply,
Ye ne'er again shall me deny,
Ye may a toothless maiden die,
For me, I 'll tak' nae care o't.
Fareweel, for ever!--aff I hie;--
Sae took his leave without a sigh:
Oh! stop, quo' Kate, I 'm yours, I 'll try
The married life, an' care o't.

Rab wheel't about, to Kate cam' back,
An' gae her mou' a hearty smack,
Syne lengthen'd out a lovin' crack
'Bout marriage, an' the care o't.
Though as she thocht she didna speak,
An' lookit unco mim an' meek,
Yet blythe was she wi' Rab to cleek
In marriage, wi' the care o't.

MARY'S TWA LOVERS.

TUNE--_"Bessie Bell and Mary Gray."_

Dear Aunty, I 've been lang your care,
Your counsels guid ha'e blest me;
Now in a kittle case ance mair
Wi' your advice assist me:
Twa lovers frequent on me wait,
An' baith I frankly speak wi';
Sae I 'm put in a puzzlin' strait
Whilk o' the twa to cleek wi'.

There 's sonsy James, wha wears a wig,
A widower fresh and canty,
Though turn'd o' sixty, gaes fu' trig,
He 's rich, and rowes in plenty.
Tam 's twenty-five, hauds James's pleugh,
A lad deserves regardin';
He 's clever, decent, sober too,
But he 's no worth ae fardin'.

Auld James, 'tis true, I downa see,
But 's cash will answer a' things;
To be a lady pleases me,
And buskit be wi' braw things.
Tam I esteem, like him there 's few,
His gait and looks entice me;
But, aunty, I 'll now trust in you,
And fix as ye advise me.

Then aunt, wha spun, laid down her roke,
An' thus repliet to Mary:
Unequal matches in a