SONG.
Contributed to the Book of Scottish Song.
There's plenty come to woo me,
And ca' me sweet and fair,
There's plenty say they lo'e me,
But they never venture mair:
They never say they'll marry,
Though love is all their tune,
From June to Janu-a-ry,
From January to June.
I canna keep frae smilin',
At their flatteries and art;
Wi' a' their fond beguilin',
They'll ne'er beguile my heart.
For nought can fix a maiden
Whase heart is warm and true,
But vows wi' marriage laden,
Though mony come to woo.
That a's no gowd that glitters
I've either heard or read,
And marriage has its bitters,
As well as sweets, is said.
But though it gets the blame o'
Some things that winna' tell,
The fau't that folks complain o'
Lies often wi' themsel'.
The year, as on it ranges,
Within its twelvemonths' fa',
Shows many sudden changes,
And's lightsome wi' them a';
Though winter's tempests thicken,
Spring comes wi' cheerful face;
And summer smiles to quicken
A' nature wi' its grace.