Hector MacNeil (1746–1818)

I LO’ED ne’er a laddie but ane,

He lo’es na a lassie but me;

He’s willing to mak’ me his ain,

And his ain I am willing to be.

He coft me a rokelay o’ blue,

And a pair o’ mittens o’ green;

He vowed that he’d ever be true,

And I plighted my troth yestreen.

Let ithers brag weel o’ their gear,

Their land and their lordly degree;

I carena for aught but my dear,

For he’s ilka thing lordly to me.

His words are sae sugared, sae sweet,

His sense drives ilk fear far awa’;

I listen, puir fool, and I greet,

Yet how sweet are the tears as they fa’!

‘Dear lassie,’ he cries wi’ a jeer,

‘Ne’er heed what the auld anes will say:

Though we’ve little to brag o’, ne’er fear,

What’s gowd to a heart that is wae?

Our laird has baith honours and wealth,

Yet see how he’s dwining wi’ care;

Now we, though we’ve naething but health,

Are cantie and leal evermair.

‘O Menie, the heart that is true

Has something mair costly than gear;

Ilk e’en it has naething to rue,

Ilk morn it has naething to fear.

Ye warldlings, gae hoard up your store,

And tremble for fear aught ye tyne;

Guard your treasures wi’ lock, bar, and door,

While here in my arms I lock mine!’

He ends wi’ a kiss and a smile—

Wae’s me, can I tak’ it amiss?

My laddie’s unpractised in guile,

He’s free aye to daut and to kiss.

Ye lasses wha’ lo’e to torment

Your wooers wi’ fause scorn and strife,

Play your pranks; I ha’e gi’en my consent,

And this night I am Jamie’s for life.