Robert Burns (1759–1796)

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, quoth 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.