But the warst thing I did in my life,
Nae doubt but ye 'll think I was wrang o 't,
Od! I tauld a bit bodie in Fife
A' my tale, and he made a bit sang o 't;
I have aye had a voice a' my days,
But for singing I ne'er got the knack o 't;
Yet I tried whiles, just thinking to please
The greedy wi' Tak it, man, tak it.
Hey the mill, &c.
Now, miller and a' as I am,
This far I can see through the matter,
There 's men mair notorious to fame,
Mair greedy than me or the muter;
For 'twad seem that the hale race o' men,
Or wi' safety the half we may mak it,
Had some speaking happer within,
That said to them, Tak it, man, tak it.
Hey for the mill, &c.
OH, SWEET WERE THE HOURS.
Air—"Gregor Arora."
Oh, sweet were the hours
That I spent wi' my Flora,
In yon gay shady bowers,
Roun' the linn o' the Cora!
Her breath was the zephyrs
That waft frae the roses,
And skim o'er the heath
As the summer day closes.
I told her my love-tale,
Which seem'd to her cheering;
Then she breathed on the soft gale
Her song so endearing.
The rock echoes ringing
Seem'd charm'd wi' my story;
And the birds, sweetly singing,
Replied to my Flora.
The sweet zephyr her breath
As it wafts frae the roses,
And skims o'er the heath
As the summer day closes.