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There's mony a ane for less wad mane,
In drear kirk-yards an' a' that,
An' tell the pale moon sic a tale,
Wad break her heart an' a' that
Till frae his wits like a' that,
He'd take a race wi' a' that,
Some gloamin' grey, and syle the Tay,
Cheat fishermen, an' a' that.
But by my sooth, I wad be laith,
Sic pranks to play, an' a’ that,
Nor shall she boast, that I hae lost,
Ae hours repose for a' that.
She's fair, but what o' a' that.
There's plenty mair wi' a' that,
That glad will be to mak wi' me,
A wedding o't, an' a' that
Samuel Macaree's Ghaist.
The ten-hour bell wi' heavy jow,
Had rung in ilka borough town,
The winds sough'd dreary o'er the knowe,
And night had on her blackest gown.
As at the fire I sat alane,
