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,