Duncan Gray cam here to woo,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't,
On blythe Yule Night when we were fu',
Ha, ha, the wooing o't,
Maggie coost her head fu' high,
Looked asklent and unco skeigh,
Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh;
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

Duncan fleeched, and Duncan prayed;
Ha, ha, the wooing o't,
Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig;
Ha, ha, the wooing o't,
Duncan sighed baith out and in,
Grat his een baith bleer't and blin',
Spak o' lowpin ower 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 dee?
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 O 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 smoored his Wrath;
Now they're crouse and canty baith,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

Added: Jan 3 2004 | Viewed: 1173 times | Comments (0)

Poet: Robert Burns
Poem: Duncan Gray

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