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　　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, "h 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. Poems and Songs of Robert Burns