389. Song—Duncan Gray

 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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