aething ye left poor young Peggie;
It was for my tocher ye cam' to court me.
Say, hae ye gowd to busk me aye gaudie?
Ribbons, and perlins, and breast-knots enew?
A house that is canty, with wealth in 't, my laddie?
Without this ye never need try for to woo."

"I hae na gowd to busk ye aye gaudie;
I canna buy ribbons and perlins enew;
I 've naething to brag o' house, or o' plenty,
I 've little to gi'e, but a heart that is true.
I cam' na for tocher--I ne'er heard o' onie;
I never lo'ed Peggy, nor e'er brak my vow:
I 've wander'd, puir fule! for a face fause as bonnie:
I little thocht this was the way for to woo."

"Our laird has fine houses, and guineas o' gowd
He 's youthfu', he 's blooming, and comely to see.
The leddies are a' ga'en wud for the wooer,
And yet, ilka e'ening, he leaves them for me.
Oh, saft in the gloaming, his love he discloses!
And saftly, yestreen, as I milked my cow,
He swore that my breath it was sweeter than roses,
And a' the gait hame he did naething but woo."

"Ah, Jenny! the young laird may brag o' his siller,
His houses, his lands, and his lordly degree;
His speeches for _true love_ may drap sweet as honey,
But trust me, dear Jenny, he ne'er lo'ed like _me_.
The wooin' o' gentry are fine words o' fashion--
The faster they fa' as the heart is least true;
The dumb look o' love 's aft the best proof o' passion;
The heart that feels maist is the least fit to woo."

"Hae na ye roosed my cheeks like the morning?
Hae na ye roosed my cherry-red mou'?
Hae na ye come ower sea, moor, and mountain?
What mair, Johnnie, need ye to woo?
Far ye wander'd, I ken, my dear laddie;
Now that ye 've found me, there 's nae cause to rue;
Wi' health we 'll hae plenty--I 'll never gang gaudie;
I ne'er wish'd for mair than a heart that is true."

She hid her fair face in her true lover's bosom,
The saft tear o' transport fill'd ilk lover's e'e;
The burnie ran sweet by their side as they sabbit,
And sweet sang the mavis aboon on the tree.
He clasp'd her, he press'd her, and ca'd her his hinny;
And aften he tasted her honey-sweet mou';
And aye, 'tween ilk kiss, she sigh'd to her Johnnie,
"Oh, laddie! weel can ye woo."

[14] Mr Graham, of Gartmore, an intimate friend of Hector Macneill