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| IN Tarbolton, ye ken, there are proper young men, | |
| And proper young lasses and a’, man; | |
| But ken ye the Ronalds that live in the Bennals, | |
| They carry the gree frae them a’, man. | |
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| Their father’s laird, and weel he can spare’t, | 5 |
| Braid money to tocher them a’, man; | |
| To proper young men, he’ll clink in the hand | |
| Gowd guineas a hunder or twa, man. | |
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| There’s ane they ca’ Jean, I’ll warrant ye’ve seen | |
| As bonie a lass or as braw, man; | 10 |
| But for sense and guid taste she’ll vie wi’ the best, | |
| And a conduct that beautifies a’, man. | |
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| The charms o’ the min’, the langer they shine, | |
| The mair admiration they draw, man; | |
| While peaches and cherries, and roses and lilies, | 15 |
| They fade and they wither awa, man, | |
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| If ye be for Miss Jean, tak this frae a frien’, | |
| A hint o’ a rival or twa, man; | |
| The Laird o’ Blackbyre wad gang through the fire, | |
| If that wad entice her awa, man. | 20 |
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| The Laird o’ Braehead has been on his speed, | |
| For mair than a towmond or twa, man; | |
| The Laird o’ the Ford will straught on a board, | |
| If he canna get her at a’, man. | |
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| Then Anna comes in, the pride o’ her kin, | 25 |
| The boast of our bachelors a’, man: | |
| Sae sonsy and sweet, sae fully complete, | |
| She steals our affections awa, man. | |
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| If I should detail the pick and the wale | |
| O’ lasses that live here awa, man, | 30 |
| The fau’t wad be mine if they didna shine | |
| The sweetest and best o’ them a’, man. | |
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| I lo’e her mysel, but darena weel tell, | |
| My poverty keeps me in awe, man; | |
| For making o’ rhymes, and working at times, | 35 |
| Does little or naething at a’, man. | |
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| Yet I wadna choose to let her refuse, | |
| Nor hae’t in her power to say na, man: | |
| For though I be poor, unnoticed, obscure, | |
| My stomach’s as proud as them a’, man. | 40 |
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| Though I canna ride in weel-booted pride, | |
| And flee o’er the hills like a craw, man, | |
| I can haud up my head wi’ the best o’ the breed, | |
| Though fluttering ever so braw, man. | |
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| My coat and my vest, they are Scotch o’ the best, | 45 |
| O’ pairs o’ guid breeks I hae twa, man; | |
| And stockings and pumps to put on my stumps, | |
| And ne’er a wrang steek in them a’, man. | |
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| My sarks they are few, but five o’ them new, | |
| Twal’ hundred, as white as the snaw, man, | 50 |
| A ten-shillings hat, a Holland cravat; | |
| There are no mony poets sae braw, man. | |
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| I never had frien’s weel stockit in means, | |
| To leave me a hundred or twa, man; | |
| Nae weel-tocher’d aunts, to wait on their drants, | 55 |
| And wish them in hell for it a’, man. | |
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| I never was cannie for hoarding o’ money, | |
| Or claughtin’t together at a’, man; | |
| I’ve little to spend, and naething to lend, | |
| But deevil a shilling I awe, man. | 60 |
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