The Book of Scottish Song/Lizy Liberty

Lizy Liberty.

[Rev. John Skinner.—Tune, "Tibbie Fowler in the glen."—Written during the political commotions which agitated Europe shortly after the great French revolution of 1789.]

There lives a lassie on the brae,
⁠O! but she's a bonnie creature;
They ca' her Lizy Liberty,
⁠And monie ane's wooing at her.
⁠Wooing at her, fain wad ha'e her,
⁠Courting at, but canna get her;
⁠Bonnie Lizy Liberty,
⁠There's o'er monie wooing at her.

Her mither wears a plettit mutch;
⁠Her father is an honest dyker,
An' she hersel's a daintie quean,
⁠Ye winna shaw me monie like her.
⁠Wooing at her, &c.

A pleasant lass she's kent to be,
⁠Wi' fouth o' sense an' smeddum in her;
There's no a swankie far or near,
⁠But tries wi' a' his might to win her.
⁠Wooing at her, &c.

But sweet and pleasant as she is,
⁠She winna thole the marriage tether,
But likes to rove and rant about,
⁠Like highland couts amang the heather.
⁠Wooing at her, &c.

It's seven years, and somewhat mair,
⁠Sin' Matthew Dutch made courtship till her,
A merchant bluff, ayont the burn,
⁠Wi' heaps o' breeks an' bags o' siller.
⁠Wooing at her, &c.

The next to him was Baltic John,
⁠Stept up the brae and keeket at her,
Syne turn'd as great a fool's he came,
⁠And in a day or twa forgat her.
⁠Wooing at her, &c.

Now Lawrie French has ta'en the whim
⁠To toss his airs, and frisk about her,
And Malcolm Fleming puffs and swears
⁠He disna value life without her.
⁠Wooing at her, &c.

They've casten out wi' a' their kin,
⁠Thinking that wad gar them get her;
Yet after a' the fash they've ta'en,
⁠They maybe winna be the better.
⁠Wooing at her, &c.

But Donald Scot's the happy lad,
⁠Wha seems to be the coshest wi' her,
He never fails to get a kiss,
⁠As aften as he likes to see her.
⁠Wooing at her, &c.

But Donald, tak' a friend's advice,
⁠Although I ken ye fain wad ha'e her,
E'en just be doing as ye are,
⁠And haud wi' what ye're getting frae her.
⁠Wooing at her, &c.

Ye're weel, and wats nae, as we say,
⁠In getting leave to dwell beside her;
And gin ye had her mair your ain,
⁠Ye'd maybe find it waur to guide her.
⁠Wooing at her, &c.

Ah! Lawrie, ye've debauch'd the lass,
⁠Wi' vile new-fangled tricks ye've play'd her;
Depraved her morals;—like an ass,
⁠Ye've courted her, and syne betray'd her.
⁠Wi' hanging of her, burning of her
⁠Cutting, hacking, slashing at her;
⁠Bonnie Lizy Liberty,
⁠May ban the day ye ettled at her.

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