Studies In Folk-song And Popular Poetry

An Extensive Investigation Into The Sources And Inspiration Of National Folk Song

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Send a horse to the water, ye '11 no mak' him drink ;
Send a fule to the college, ye '11 no mak' him think ;
Send a craw to the surgin, an' still he will craw ;
An' the wee laird had nae rummelgumpshion ava ;
Yet he is the pride o' his fond mother's e'e ;
In body or mind nae faut can she see ; " He's a fell clever lad an' a bonnie wee man,"
Is aye the beginnin' an' end o' her sang. An' oh, she 's a haverin' Lucky, I trow, An' oh, she's a haverin' Lucky, I trow. " He 's a fell clever lad, an' a bonnie wee man," Is aye the beginnin' an' end o' her sang.
His legs they are bow'd, his e'es they do glee, His wig, whiles its off, an' when on, its ajee. He 's braird as he 's long — an' ill-faur'd is he, A dafter like body I never did see. An' yet for this cretur she says I am deein' ; When that I deny — she's fear'd at my leein'. Obliged to pit up wi' the sair defamation, I 'm liken to dee wi' shame and vexation. An' oh, she's a haverin' Lucky, etc.
An' her clish-ma-clavers gang a' thro' the town, An' the wee lairdie trows I '11 hang or I '11 drown ; Wi' his gawkie like face yestreen he did say, " I '11 maybe tak' you, for Bess I '11 no hae, Nor Mollie, nor Effie, nor long-legged Jeanie, Nor Nellie, nor Katie, nor skirlin' wee Beenie." I stoppet my ears, ran off in a fury — I 'm thinkin' to bring them before Judge and Jury. For oh, what a randy old Lucky is she, etc.
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