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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 hussy die;
She may gae to France for me,
ha, ha the wooing o’t.
How it comes, let doctors tell,
ha, ha, the woo ng o t,
Meg grew sick as he grew well,
ha, ha, the wooing o't,
Something in her bosom rings,
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
Maggy's was a ticklish 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
