Tarbolton Lasses, The

     If ye gae up to yon hill-tap,
     Ye'll there see bonie Peggy;
     She kens her father is a laird,
     And she forsooth's a leddy.

     There Sophy tight, a lassie bright,
     Besides a handsome fortune:
     Wha canna win her in a night,
     Has little art in courtin'.

     Gae down by Faile, and taste the ale,
     And tak a look o' Mysie;
     She's dour and din, a deil within,
     But aiblins she may please ye.

     If she be shy, her sister try,
     Ye'll maybe fancy Jenny;
     If ye'll dispense wi' want o' sense—
     She kens hersel she's bonie.

     As ye gae up by yon hillside,
     Speir in for bonie Bessy;
     She'll gie ye a beck, and bid ye light,
     And handsomely address ye.

     There's few sae bonie, nane sae guid,
     In a' King George' dominion;
     If ye should doubt the truth o' this—
     It's Bessy's ain opinion!