342. I Lo’ed Ne’er a Laddie but Ane

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.