Song Xxxix. Muirland Willie Poem by Robert Anderson

To yon lone cot out o'er the moor,
That's shaded wi' green trees,
I aft steal frae my mither's door,
Young Willy there to teaze;
Then sair she flytes at my return,
And ca's me young and silly;
But, wae's my heart! I hate to mourn
Sae near my Muirland Willy.

At bughting time, whene'er we meet
In meadow, glen, or grove,
Wi' honey words and kisses sweet,
He tells saft tales of love:
My cheeks he says are like a rose,
My skin white as the lily,
My een are blacker far than sloes,
The smiling Muirland Willy.

When at the market, dance, or fair,
Bra' things he gi'es to me,
Baith pins and ribbands for my hair,
Sae comely for to see;
But when he wrestles on the green,
I look baith saft and silly,
While tears run trickling frae my een,
For fear o' Muirland Willy.

The youth is blythe, right fair to see,
And free frae warldly pride;
I ken fu' weel he doats on me,
And means me for his bride.
When next we meet I'se tell my mind,
And be no longer silly;
Then, if to marriage he's inclin'd,
I'll wed wi' Muirland Willy.