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The Tarbolton Lasses

If ye gae up to yon hill—tap,
Ye’ll there see bonie Peggy;
She kens her father is a laird,
And she forsooth’s a leddy.
 
There Sophy tight, a lassie bright,
Besides a handsome fortune:
Wha canna win her in a night,
Has little art in courtin’.
 
Gae down by Faile, and taste the ale,
And tak a look o’ Mysie;
She’s dour and din, a deil within,
But aiblins she may please ye.
 
If she be shy, her sister try,
Ye’ll maybe fancy Jenny;
If ye’ll dispense wi’ want o’ sense—
She kens hersel she’s bonie.
 
As ye gae up by yon hillside,
Speir in for bonie Bessy;
She’ll gie ye a beck, and bid ye light,
And handsomely address ye.
 
There’s few sae bonie, nane sae guid,
In a’ King George’ dominion;
If ye should doubt the truth o’ this—
It’s Bessy’s ain opinion!
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