An old song, a copy of which exists in Burns's handwriting.
Amang our young lasses there's Muirland Meg,
She'll beg or she work, and she'll play or she beg;
At thretteen her maidenhead flew to the gate,
An' the door o' her cage stands open yet.
And for a sheep-cloot she'll do't, she'll do't,
And for a sheep-cloot she'll do't;
And for a toop-horn she'll do't to the morn,
And merrily turn and do't, and do't.
Her kittle black een they wad thirl ye thro',
Her rosebud lips cry kiss me just now;
The curls and links o' her bonny black hair,
Wad put you in mind that the lassie has mair.
An armfu' o' love is her bosom sae plump;
A span o' delight is her middle sae jimp,
A taper white leg, and a thumpin' thie.
And a fiddle near by ye can play a wee.
Love's her delight and kissing's her treasure.
She'll stick at nae price an ye gie her good measure;
As lang's a sheep-fit an' as girt's a goose egg,
O, that's the measure o' Muirland Meg.