‘Shall I, like a fool,’ quoth he,
‘For a naughty hizzie die? hussy
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 haill, whole
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.
Something in her bosom wrings,
For relief a sigh she brings;