I.

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, believe me, The deuce gae wi'm, to believe me!

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