O Lassie, will ye tak' a man,|
Rich in housing, gear, and lan'?
De'il tak' the cash! that I should ban,
Nae mair I'll be the slave o't.
I'll buy you claise to husk you braw,
A riding pony, pad and a';
On fashion's tap we'll drive awa',
Whip, spur, and a' the lave o't.
2. O poortith is a wintry day,|
Cheerless, hurtle, cauld, and blae ;
But basking under Fortune's ray,
There's joy whate'er ye'd have o't.
Then gie's your hand ye'll be my wife,
I'll make you happy a' your life,
We'll row in love and siller rife,
Till death wind up the lave o't.
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