My dear little Lassie.
[From "Poems chiefly in the Scottish dialect, by the Rev. James Nicol. In two volumes. Edinburgh, 1805."—Tune, "Bonnie Dundee."]
My dear little lassie, why, what's a' the matter?
My heart it gangs pittypat, winna lie still;
I've waited, and waited, an' a' to grow better
Yet, lassie, believe me, I'm aye growing ill:
My head 's turn'd quite dizzy, an' aft when I'm speaking
I sigh, an' am breathless, an' fearfu' to speak;
I gaze aye for something I fain wad be seeking,
Yet, lassie, I kenna weel what I wad seek.
Thy praise, bonnie lassie, I ever could hear of,
And yet when to ruse ye the neebour lads try,
Though it's a' true they tell ye, yet never sae far off
I could see 'em ilk ane, an' I canna tell why.
When we tedded the hayfield, I raked ilka rig o't,
And never grew wearie the lang simmer day;
The rucks that ye wrought at were easiest biggit,
And I fand sweeter scented aroun' ye the hay.
In har'st, whan the kirn-supper joys mak' us cheerie,
'Mang the lave of the lasses I pried yere sweet mou';
Dear save us! how queer I felt whan I cam' near ye,
My breast thrill'd in rapture, I couldna tell how.
Whan we dance at the gloamin' it's you I aye pitch on,
And gin ye gang by me how dowie I be;
There's something, dear lassie, about ye bewitching,
That tells me my happiness centres in thee.