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Gil Morrice. A Scottish Ballad

Gil Morrice was an erles son,
His name it waxed wide:
It was nae for his great riches,
Nor zet was mickle pride;
Bot it was for a lady gay,
That livd on Carron side.

'Quhair sall I get a bonny boy,
That will win hose and shoen;
That will gae to Lord Barnard's ha',
And bid his lady cum?
And ze maun rin my errand, Willie,
And ze may rin wi' pride;
Quhen other boys gae on their foot,
On horse-back ze sall ride.'

'O no! O no! my master dear!
I dare nae for my life;
I'll no gae to the bauld barons,
For to triest furth his wife.'

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poem by Anonymous Olde English
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My Last Farewell To Stirling

Nae lark in transport mounts the sky
Or leaves wi' early plaintive cry,
But I will bid a last good-bye,
My last farewell to Stirling O.

Chorus:

Tho' far awa, ma hert's wi' you.
Our youthful 'oors, upon wings they flew
But I will bid a last adieu
A last farewell to Stirling O.

Nae mair I'll meet ye in the dark
Or gang wi' you to the King's Park
Or raise the hare from oot their flap
When I gae far fae Stirling O.

Nae mair I'll wander through the glen,
Disturb the roost o' the pheasant hen.
Or chase the rabbits tae their den

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poem by Robert Burns
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The Lang Coortin

The ladye she stood at her lattice high,
Wi' her doggie at her feet;
Thorough the lattice she can spy
The passers in the street,

'There's one that standeth at the door,
And tirleth at the pin:
Now speak and say, my popinjay,
If I sall let him in.'

Then up and spake the popinjay
That flew abune her head:
'Gae let him in that tirls the pin:
He cometh thee to wed.'

O when he cam' the parlour in,
A woeful man was he!
'And dinna ye ken your lover agen,
Sae well that loveth thee?'

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poem by Lewis Carroll
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The Lang Coortin'

THE ladye she stood at her lattice high,
Wi' her doggie at her feet;
Thorough the lattice she can spy
The passers in the street,

"There's one that standeth at the door,
And tirleth at the pin:
Now speak and say, my popinjay,
If I sall let him in."

Then up and spake the popinjay
That flew abune her head:
"Gae let him in that tirls the pin:
He cometh thee to wed."

O when he cam' the parlour in,
A woeful man was he!
"And dinna ye ken your lover agen,
Sae well that loveth thee?"

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poem by Lewis Carroll from Phantasmagoria and Other Poems
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Jamie Telfer

It fell about the Martinmas tyde,
When our Border steeds get corn and hay
The captain of Bewcastle hath bound him to ryde,
And he's ower to Tividale to drive a prey.

The first ae guide that they met wi',
It was high up Hardhaughswire;
The second guide that we met wi',
It was laigh down in Borthwick water.

'What tidings, what tidings, my trusty guide?'
'Nae tidings, nae tidings, I hae to thee;
But, gin ye'll gae to the fair Dodhead,
Mony a cow's cauf I'll let thee see.'

And whan they cam to the fair Dodhead,
Right hastily they clam the peel;
They loosed the kye out, ane and a',
And ranshackled the house right weel.

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poem by Andrew Lang
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Johnie Faa

The gypsies came to our good lord's gate
And wow but they sang sweetly!
They sang sae sweet and sae very complete
That down came the fair lady.

And she came tripping doun the stair,
And a' her maids before her;
As soon as they saw her weel-far'd face,
They coost the glamer o'er her.

'O come with me,' says Johnie Faw,
'O come with me, my dearie;
For I vow and I swear by the hilt of my sword,
That your lord shall nae mair come near ye.'

Then she gied them the beer and the wine,
And they gied her the ginger;
But she gied them a far better thing,
The goud ring aff her finger.

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poem by Andrew Lang
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Last May a Braw Wooer

Last May a braw wooer cam down the lang glen,
And sair wi' his love he did deave me;
I said there was naething I hated like men:
The deuce gae wi 'm to believe me, believe me,
The deuce gae wi 'm to believe me.

He spak o' the darts in my bonie black een,
And vow'd for my love he was diein;
I said he might die when he liked for Jean:
The Lord forgie me for liein, for liein,
The Lord forgie me for liein!

A weel-stocked mailen, himsel for the laird,
And marriage aff-hand, were his proffers:
I never loot on that I ken'd it, or car'd,
But thought I might hae waur offers, waur offers,
But thought I might hae waur offers.

But what wad ye think? in a fortnight or less,
(The deil tak his taste to gae near her!)

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poem by Robert Burns
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The Braw Wooer

Last May, a braw wooer cam doun the lang glen,
And sair wi’ his love he did deave me;
I said, there was naething I hated like men—
The deuce gae wi’m, to believe me, believe me;
The deuce gae wi’m to believe me.

He spak o’ the darts in my bonie black e’en,
And vow’d for my love he was diein,
I said, he might die when he likèd for Jean—
The Lord forgie me for liein, for liein;
The Lord forgie me for liein!

A weel-stocked mailen, himsel’ for the laird,
And marriage aff-hand, were his proffers;
I never loot on that I kenn’d it, or car’d;
But thought I might hae waur offers, waur offers;
But thought I might hae waur offers.

But what wad ye think?—in a fortnight or less—
The deil tak his taste to gae near her!

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poem by Robert Burns
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Lord Thomas And Fair Annet

Lord Thomas and Fair Annet
Sate a' day on a hill;
Whan night was cum, and sun was sett,
They had not talkt their fill.

Lord Thomas said a word in jest,
Fair Annet took it ill:
'A, I will nevir wed a wife
Against my ain friend's will.'

'Gif ye wull nevir wed a wife,
A wife wull neir wed yee;'
Sae he is hame to tell his mither,
And knelt upon his knee.

'O rede, O rede, mither,' he says,
'A gude rede gie to mee;
O sall I tak the nut-browne bride,
And let Faire Annet bee?'

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poem by Andrew Lang
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Tarbolton Lasses, The

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.

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poem by Robert Burns
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