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Robert Burns - The Ronalds Of The Bennals
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In Tarbolton, ye ken, there are proper young men,
And proper young lasses and a`, man;
But ken ye the Ronalds that live in the Bennals,
They carry the gree frae them a`, man.

Their father`s laird, and weel he can spare`t,
Braid money to tocher them a`, man;
To proper young men, he`ll clink in the hand
Gowd guineas a hunder or twa, man.

There`s ane they ca` Jean, I`ll warrant ye`ve seen
As bonie a lass or as braw, man;
But for sense and guid taste she`ll vie wi` the best,
And a conduct that beautifies a`, man.

The charms o` the min`, the langer they shine,
The mair admiration they draw, man;
While peaches and cherries, and roses and lilies,
They fade and they wither awa, man,

If ye be for Miss Jean, tak this frae a frien`,
A hint o` a rival or twa, man;
The Laird o` Blackbyre wad gang through the fire,
If that wad entice her awa, man.

The Laird o` Braehead has been on his speed,
For mair than a towmond or twa, man;
The Laird o` the Ford will straught on a board,
If he canna get her at a`, man.

Then Anna comes in, the pride o` her kin,
The boast of our bachelors a`, man:
Sae sonsy and sweet, sae fully complete,
She steals our affections awa, man.

If I should detail the pick and the wale
O` lasses that live here awa, man,
The fau`t wad be mine if they didna shine
The sweetest and best o` them a`, man.

I lo`e her mysel, but darena weel tell,
My poverty keeps me in awe, man;
For making o` rhymes, and working at times,
Does little or naething at a`, man.

Yet I wadna choose to let her refuse,
Nor hae`t in her power to say na, man:
For though I be poor, unnoticed, obscure,
My stomach`s as proud as them a`, man.

Though I canna ride in weel-booted pride,
And flee o`er the hills like a craw, man,
I can haud up my head wi` the best o` the breed,
Though fluttering ever so braw, man.

My coat and my vest, they are Scotch o` the best,
O`pairs o` guid breeks I hae twa, man;
And stockings and pumps to put on my stumps,
And ne`er a wrang steek in them a`, man.

My sarks they are few, but five o` them new,
Twal` hundred, as white as the snaw, man,
A ten-shillings hat, a Holland cravat;
There are no mony poets sae braw, man.

I never had frien`s weel stockit in means,
To leave me a hundred or twa, man;
Nae weel-tocher`d aunts, to wait on their drants,
And wish them in hell for it a`, man.

I never was cannie for hoarding o` money,
Or claughtin`t together at a`, man;
I`ve little to spend, and naething to lend,
But deevil a shilling I awe, man.
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