Tibbie wi' her Fifty Mark

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O Tibbie. I ha’e seen the day
ye wadna been sae shy;
For laik o’gear ye lightly me,
but yet I carena by.

Yestreen I met you on the moor,
Ye spakena, but gaed by like flour!
Ye geek at me because I’m poor,
But ne’er a hair care I.

I doubtna, lass, but ye may think,
Because ye ha’e the name o’clink,
That ye can please me wi’ a wink,
Whene’er ye like to try.
He’s silly that would be sae mean,
Altho’ his pouch o’coin were clean,
Wha follows ony saucy quean,
hat looks sae proud and high:
O Tibbie, &c.

Altho’ a lad were e’er sae smart,
If he want gowd, that yellow dirt,
Ye’ll cast your head anither airt,
And answer him su'dry. But if he hae the name o’ gear,
Ye’ll fasten to him like a brier,
Tho’ hardly he, for sense and lear,
Be better than the ky.
O Tibbie, &c.

O Tibbie, ye’re o’er su’ o’spice,
Your Daddie’s gear makes you o’er nice,
But ne’er a ane wad speir your price,
Were ye as poor as I.
There lives a lass in yonder park,
I wadna gi’e her in her sark,
For you and a’ your fifty mark.
That gars ye look sae shy.
O Tibbie, &c.