3
Now forlorn and broken-hearted,
And with frenzied thoughts beset,
On that spot where last we parted,
On that spot where first we met,
Still I sing my love-lorn ditty.
Still I slowly pace the plain;
While each passer-by, in pity,
Cries—God help thee, Crazy Jane!
GUDE FORGE' ME FOR LIEIN'.
Ae day a braw wooer came down the lang glen
And sair wi' his love did he deave me;
But I said there was naething I hated like men,
The deuce tak' the lad to believe me.
A weel stocket mailen himself o't the laird,
An' bridal aff han' was the proffer;
I never loot on that I kend or I ca'rd,
But I thought I might get a waur offer.
He spake o' the darts o' my bonny black e'en;
An' O, for my love he was diein'
I said he might die when he liket for Jean:
The gude forgi'e me for liein’.
But what do you think? in a fortnight or less.
(He has a poor taste to gae near her)
He's down to the castle to black cousin Bess;
O, think how could I endure her.
An' a' the niest ouk as I fretted wi' care,
