V.
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.
CLXXXV.
O POORTITH CAULD.
Tune—“I had a horse.”
[Jean Lorimer, the Chloris and the “Lassie with the lint-white locks” of Burns, was the heroine of this exquisite lyric: she was at that time very young; her shape was fine, and her “dimpled cheek and cherry mou” will be long remembered in Nithsdale.]
I.
O poortith cauld, and restless love,
Ye wreck my peace between ye;
Yet poortith a’ I could forgive,
An’ twere na’ for my Jeanie.
O why should fate sic pleasure have,
Life’s dearest bands untwining?
Or why sae sweet a flower as love
Depend on fortune’s shining?
II.