Sing my bonnie harmless sheep,
That feed upon the mountains steep,
Bleating sweetly, as ye go
Through the winter's frost and snow.
Hart, and hynd, and fallow-deer,
No by half sae useful are:
Frae kings, to him that hauds the plou',
All are obliged to tarry woo.
Up, ye shepherds, dance and skip;
Ower the hills and valleys trip;
Sing up the praise of tarry woo;
Sing the flocks that bear it too:
Harmless creatures, without blame,
That clead the back, and cram the wame;
Keep us warm and hearty fou—
Leeze me on the tarry woo.
How happy is the shepherd's life,
Far frae courts and free of strife!
While the gimmers bleat and bae,
And the lambkins answer mae;
No such music to his ear!
Of thief or fox he has no fear:
Sturdy kent, and collie true,
Weil defend the tarry woo.
He lives content, and envies none:
Not even a monarch on his throne,
Though he the royal sceptre sways,
Has such pleasant holidays.
Who'd be king, can ony tell,
When a shepherd sings sae well?
Sings sae well, and pays his due
With honest heart and tarry woo.
My wife's.
[The tune of "My wife's a wanton wee thing" is old, and is sometimes used as a reel tune. Part of the following song appears in Herd's collection, 1776, and part in Johnson's Museum.]
My wife's a wanton wee thing,
My wife's a wanton wee thing,
My wife's a wanton wee thing,
She winna be guided by me.
She play'd the loon ere she was married,
She play'd the loon ere she was married,
She play'd the loon ere she was married,
She'll do't again ere she die!
She sell'd her coat, and she drank it,
She sell'd her coat, and she drank it,
She row'd hersel' in a blanket;
She winna be guided by me.
She mind't na when I forbade her,
She mind't na when I forbade her,
I took a rung and I claw'd her,
And a braw gude bairn was she.
She is a winsome.
[Written by Burns in 1792 for Thomson's collection, to the tune of "My wife's a wanton wee thing."]
She is a winsome wee thing,
She is a winsome wee thing,
She is a bonnie wee thing,
This sweet wee wife o' mine!
I never saw a fairer,
I never loo'd a dearer;
And neist my heart I'll wear her,
For fear my jewel tine.
She is a winsome wee thing,
She is a handsome wee thing,
She is a bonnie wee thing,
This sweet wee wife o' mine.
The warld's wrak we share o't,
The warstle and the care o't;
Wi' her I'll blythely bear it,
And think my lot divine.
Though dowie's the Winter.
[Alexander Laing.—First printed in the "British Minstrel" edited by Mr. John Struthers, and published by Khull, Blackie, & Co., 1821.]
Though dowie's the winter sae gloomie an' drear,
O happy we've been through the dead o' the year;
An' blythe to sic bield as the burnie brae gave;
O mony a nicht ha'e we stoun frae the lave.
