4
Yon mossy rose-bud down the howe,
Just op’ning fresh and bonnie,
Blinks sweetly ’neath the hazel bough,
And’s scarcely seen by ony.
Sae sweet amidst her native hills,
Obscurely blooms my Jeanie,
Mair fair and gay than rosy May—
The flower of Arranteenie.
Now from the mountain’s lofty brow
I view the distant ocean,
There av’rice guides the bounding prow,
Ambition courts promotion.
Let fortune pour her golden store,
Her laurel’d favours many.
Give me but this, my soul’s first wish.
The lass of Arranteenie.
MIRREN GIBB’S PUBLIC HOUSE.
Last Monday night at sax o’clock,
To Mirren Gibb’s I went, man,
To meet wi’ some auld cronies there,
It was my hale intent, man.
So down we sat and pried the yill,
Syne I pil’d out my sneeshin’ mill,
An’ took a pinch wi’ right good-will,
O’ beggar’s brown, the best in town.
Then sent it roun’ about the room,
To gie ilka ane a scent, man.
