TIBBY FOWLER.

THE brankit lairds o' Gallowa',
The hodden breeks o' Annan water,
The bonnets blue o' fair Nithsdale,
Are yont the hallen wooing at her.

Tweedshaw's tarry neives are here,
Brakshaw gabs frae Moffat water;
An' half the thieves o' Annandale,
Are come to steal her gear, and daut her.

I mind her weel in plaiden gown,
Afore she got her uncle's coffer;
The gleds might peck'd her yont the dyke,
Before the lads wad shor'd them aff her.

Now she's got a bawsent cowte,
Graithing sew'd wi' thread o' siller,
Silken sonks to haud her doup,
An' half the kintra's trystin' till her.

Sour plumbs are gude wi' sugar bak'd—
Slaes are sweet wi' kames o' hinnie;
The bowltest carlin i' the land,
Gowd can make her straught an' bonnie.

I wadna gie the rosie lips,
Wi' breath like mixed milk an' hinnie,
Which i' the gloaming dew I kist,
For Tibby wi' a mine o' monie.

I wadna gie the haffet locks,
Wi' blabs o' dew sae richly drapping;
Which lay yestreen upon my breast,
For Tibby wi' her lady happing.