Bonnie Mysie

Did you e'er see young Mysie Brown,

The bonniest lass in Auchterfell?

Of a' the maids the parish roun',

The swankies owned she bore the bell.

Young roses budded on her cheek,

Her neck was like the drifted snaw,

And there her ringlets, saft and sleek,

Waved lightly black as ony craw.

Light o'er the gowans she would skip,

Blithe as a lamb upon the lea;

The smile of love upon her lip—

His lightnings flashing in her e'c.

Saft as the burnie whimples by,

Or bee that hums on heather-bell,

Or simmer gloaming zephyrs sigh,

Young Mysie's gentle accents fell.

The laverock welcoming the morn

Wi' dewy breast in cloudless air,

Or mavis on the blossomed thorn,

Wi' Mysie's sang could ne'er compare.

She buskit trigly in her claes,

Sae weel put on, sae neat and clean;

Like vernal flowers on banks and bracs,

She aye was lovely to be seen.

She was nae idle glaiket quean,

That took delight to jouk and play;

In eident thrift frae morn to e'en.

She pass'd her time frae day to day.

What lass e'er look'd on Andrew Slight,

The wale of a' in Murlingden,

But saw him in her dreams at night,

And, waking, wish'd to dream again?

At kirk and fair he show'd a grace.

At wark few had a wighter arm:

Nane show'd mair smeddum in their face,

Nae bosom held a heart mair warm.

Oh! willawins for Andrew now!

He leads a dowie, heartless life:

Deep care sits glooming on his brow,—

He's linked to a weirdless wife.

She is to a' her sex a shame,

The scorn and talk of a' the town;

Ye'Il ferlie when ye hear her name—

The meekly modest Mysie Brown.

Love laughs nae langer in her e'e.

Her dimpling smile nae mair is seen,

Her hair hangs huddering o'er her bree,

Her claes are neither neat nor clean.

Ae day she's donnard, daised and doited,

Bumbazed she wanders out and in;

The neist sae cankered, capernoited,

She deaves his lugs wi' scaulding din.

Yet she of fondness has her fits,

But wi' a wild and wanton air,

When they are o'er, she moping sits,

And seems the image o' despair.

At morn, she's sulky, sour, and sad,

Her head like dying hen she hings;

At e'en, her rauckle tongue's sae mad,

That a' the roof aboon them rings.

She'll daud her bairnies to the wa',

And fling the stools and chairs about;

Will Andrew wi' foul tongue misca',

And, aiblins, try to gi'e 'm a clout.

Their house was ance right weel provided.

But back and bed is bauch and bare,

For a' thing is sae sair misguided,

The siller gangs he kens na where.

It grieves the muse to tell the cause

Which maks a worthy pair unhappy;

Let prudent maidens o'er it pause—

The gentle Mysie taks a drappie!