389. Song—Duncan Gray - Poem by Robert Burns

DUNCAN GRAY cam’ here to woo,
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t,
On blythe Yule-night when we were fou,
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t,
Maggie coost her head fu’ heigh,
Look’d asklent and unco skeigh,
Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh;
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t.

Duncan fleech’d and Duncan pray’d;
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t,
Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig,
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t:
Duncan sigh’d baith out and in,
Grat his e’en baith blear’t an’ blin’,
Spak o’ lowpin o’er a linn;
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t.

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 hizzie die?
She may gae to—France for me!
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t.

How it comes let doctors tell,
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t;
Meg grew sick, as he grew hale,
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t.
Something in her bosom wrings,
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:
Maggie’s was a piteous 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.