Page:The poetical works of Robert Burns.djvu/367

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THE SONGS OF BURNS.
295
A reekit wee Devil looks over the wa'(Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi' thyme),'O, help, master, help, or she'll ruin us a','And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.
The Devil he swore by the edge o' his knife(Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi' thyme),He pitied the man that was tied to a wife;And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.
The Devil he swore by the kirk and the bell(Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi' thyme),He was not in wedlock, thank heav'n, but in hell;And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.
Then Satan has travell'd again wi' his pack(Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi' thyme),And to her auld husband he's carried her back;And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.
'I hae been a Devil the feck o' my life(Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi' thyme),But ne'er was in hell, till I met wi' a wife;'And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.

THE TAILOR.

TUNE—'THE TAILOR FELL THRO' THE BED, THIMBLES AN' A'.'

THE Tailor fell thro' the bed, thimbles an' a',The Tailor fell thro' the bed, thimbles an' a';The blankets were thin, and the sheets they were sma',The Tailor fell thro' the bed, thimbles an' a'.
The sleepy bit lassie, she dreaded nae ill,The sleepy bit lassie, she dreaded nae ill;The weather was cauld, and the lassie lay still,She thought that a tailor could do her nae ill.
Gie me the groat again, canny young man;Gie me the groat again, canny young man;The day it is short, and the night it is lang,The dearest siller that ever I wan!
There's somebody weary wi' lying her lane;There's somebody weary wi' lying her lane;There's some that are dowie, I trow wad be fainTo see the bit tailor come skippin' again.
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