Song Xvii. The Lasses O’ The Lyne Poem by Robert Anderson

Of Yarrow, Tweed, and winding Tay,
Fu' lightly Allan sang, O;
To Nanny Burns aft tun'd his lay,
Till glens wi' echoes rang, O:
In weel--tim'd verse cou'd I rehearse
The charms o' maidens fine, O,
My sang shou'd be in praise o' three,
The lasses o' the Lyne, O.

Ye dainty dames wi' borrow'd face,
Whase praise but few can tell, O;
Wha proudly sneer, and scorn the place
Where Virtue likes to dwell, O;
For you sae gay, at ball or play,
Tho' tinsell'd beaus may pine, O,
Your town--bred air can no compare
Wi' the lasses o' the Lyne, O.

To warldly elves gi'e gowd and land,
To courtly knaves gi'e pride, O;
A' India's wealth cou'd I command,
I'd dwell by yon burn side, O.
Sin' Poverty aye hauds by me,
Sic joys can ne'er be mine, O;
In artless lays content I'll praise
The lasses o' the Lyne, O.