Duncan Gray

by Robert Burns

Duncan Gray cam here to woo,
  Ha, ha, the wooing o’t,
On blythe Yule night when we were fou,
  Ha, ha, the wooing o’t,
Maggie coost her head fu’ high,
Look’d asklent and unco skeigh,
Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh;
  Ha, ha, the wooing o’t.

Duncan fleech’d and Duncan pray’d;
Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig;
Duncan sigh’d baith out and in,
Grat his een baith bleert and blin’,
Spak o’ lowpin’ ower a linn!

Time and chance are but a tide,
Slighted love is sair to bide;
Shall I, like a fool, quoth he,
For a haughty hizzie dee?
She may gae to — France for me!

How it comes let doctors tell,
Meg grew sick — as he grew heal;
Something in her bosom wrings,
For relief a sigh she brings;
And O, her een, they spak sic things!

Duncan was a lad o’ grace;
Maggie’s was a piteous case;
Duncan could na be her death,
Swelling pity smoor’d his wrath;
Now they’re crouse and canty baith:
  Ha, ha, the wooing o’t!