Esabell.
[James Murray.—Here first printed.—Tune, "The brier bush."]
O, weary fa' that little fairie, our Isabell—
O, plague be on that wllfu' fairie, our Isabell;
For although we like the lassie weel—and that she kens hersel'—
Yet ower the border, right or wrang, will our Isabel.
O, we'll seldom get a sang at e'en, and scarce a tune ava,
Sae we may sit and hing our lugs when she gangs awa';
For little Bessie winna croon, and Johnnie scarcely craw,
They'll be sae dowf and dowie soon when she gangs awa'.
The sky that smiles sae fair at morn, ere night may be o'ercast;
Sae our dearest pleasures fade away, and downa langer last.
And it ser's us nought to sit and fret, whatever may befa'—
But, guidsake, wha wad e'er ha'e thought o' her gaun awa'.
O, we've canker'd folk and canny folk in our house at hame,
And some that scarce dow bide a joke in our house at hame;
And we'd ower the border ane and a', if ever we heard tell
That ony birkie daur'd to gloom at our Isabell.
O, weary fa' that little fairie, our Isabell—
O, plague be on that wilfu' fairie, our Isabell;
For although we like the gipsie mair than ony tongue can tell,
Yet, ower the border, right or wrang, will our Isabell.