Auld Rob Morris

There’s auld Rob Morris that wons in yon glen, He’s the king o’ gude fellows and wale of auld men; He has gowd in his coffers, he has owsen and kine, And ae bonnie lassie, his darling and mine.

She’s fresh as the morning, the fairest in May; She’s sweet as the ev’ning amang the new hay; As blythe and as artless as the lamb on the lea, And dear to my heart as the light to my e’e.

But oh! she’s an heiress, auld Robin’s a laird, And my daddie has nought but a cot-house and yard; A wooer like me maunna hope to come speed, The wounds I must hide that will soon be my dead.

The day comes to me, but delight brings me nane; The night comes to me, but my rest it is gane: I wander my lane, like a night-troubled ghaist, And I sigh as my heart it wad burst in my breast.

O had she but been of a lower degree, I then might hae hoped she wad smiled upon me; O how past descriving had then been my bliss, As now my distraction no words can express!