7 Till o’er my head the chamber pot In twenty pieces it is broke. And then I’m forc’d to flee, man
But, Jamie, when ye wale a wife. Lay beauty a’ aside, man, The pleasures o' a virtuous wife Are beyond a bonny bride, man. Think on their wild deceitfu’ ways, Their painted cheeks and bonny claes, They’re like a stocking fu’ o’ flaes, That will torment ye a’ your days, Until the day ye die, man.
THE HIGLAND WIDOW’S LAMENT.
Oh! I am come to the low countrie, Ochon, ochon, ochrie! Without a penny in my purse, To buy a meal to me.
It was nae sae in the Highland hills, Ochon, ochon, ochrie! Nae woman in the country wide Sae happy was as me.
For then I had a score o’ kye, Ochon, ochon, ochrie! Feeding on yon hill sae high, nd giving milk to me.
