But sorrow tak him that’s sae mean,
Altho’ his pouch o’ coin were clean,
Wha follows ony saucy quean,
That looks sae proud and high.
IV.
Altho’ a lad were e’er sae smart,
If that he want the yellow dirt,
Ye’ll cast your head anither airt,
And answer him fu’ dry.
V.
But if he hae the name o’ gear,
Ye’ll fasten to him like a brier,
Tho’ hardly he, for sense or lear,
Be better than the kye.
VI.
But, Tibbie, lass, tak my advice,
Your daddie’s gear maks you sae nice;
The deil a ane wad spier your price,
Were ye as poor as I.
VII.
There lives a lass in yonder park,
I would nae gie her in her sark,
For thee, wi’ a’ thy thousan’ mark;
Ye need na look sae high.