Sandy.
[From a volume entitled "Twelve Dramatic Sketches, founded on the Pastoral Poetry of Scotland. By W. M. Hetherington, A. M.:" Edinburgh, 1829.]
O Sandy is a braw lad,
An' Sandy is a fine,
An' Sandy is a bonnie lad,
An', best of a', he's mine!
There's Tibby glooms, and Nelly geeks,
An' Nanny looks fu' shy,
And Katie downa speak to me;
But troth I carena by!
For Sandy is a braw lad,
An' Sandy is a fine,
An' Sandy is a bonnie lad,
An', best of a', he's mine!
Auld Girzie, wi' her cock-up nose,
She fuffs like ony goose;
An' wee bit perkin Marjory,
Poor thing! looks unco crouse:
Fat Lizzie's een for vera spite,
They glow like ony coal,
An' Betty, wi' her brucket face,
My sight she canna thole.
For Sandy is, &c.
The slae is sour, but sourer far
Is muckle wry-mouth'd Jean;
An' lang-tongued Eppie, warst ava,
She flytes fra morn till e'en;
Mim Marion thraws her wrinkled chafts
Like ony beggar's dud,
Gleed Matty shakes her corky head,
And winks as she were wud.
For Sandy is, &c.
There's no a lass in a' the town,
But sair she hates poor me;
Daft gouks! they fear they'll lose their joe,—
And sae it e'en may be!
To tempt them, for a week or twa,
The secret yet I'll hide;
But I could tell, or this day month,
Wha will be Sandy's bride!
O Sandy is, &c.