Auld Rob Morris

      There's Auld Rob Morris that wons in yon glen,      He's the King o' gude fellows, and wale o' auld men;      He has gowd in his coffers, he has owsen and kine,      And ae bonie lass, his dautie and mine.       She's fresh as the morning, the fairest in May;      She's sweet as the ev'ning amang the new hay;      As blythe and as artless as the lambs on the lea,      And dear to my heart as the light to my e'e.       But oh! she's an Heiress, auld Robin's a laird,      And my daddie has nought but a cot-house and yard;      A wooer like me maunna hope to come speed,      The wounds I must hide that will soon be my dead.       The day comes to me, but delight brings me nane;      The night comes to me, but my rest it is gane;      I wander my lane like a night-troubled ghaist,      And I sigh as my heart it wad burst in my breast.       O had she but been of a lower degree,      I then might hae hop'd she wad smil'd upon me!      O how past descriving had then been my bliss,      As now my distraction nae words can express.