There's A Youth In This City.

A poem by Robert Burns

To a Gaelic Air.


There's a youth in this city,
It were a great pity
That he frae our lasses shou'd wander awa:
For he's bonnie an' braw,
Weel-favour'd an' a',
And his hair has a natural buckle an' a'.
His coat is the hue
Of his bonnet sae blue;
His feck it is white as the new-driven snaw;
His hose they are blae,
And his shoon like the slae.
And his clear siller buckles they dazzle us a'.


For beauty and fortune
The laddie's been courtin';
Weel-featured, weel-tocher'd, weel-mounted and braw;
But chiefly the siller,
That gars him gang till her,
The pennie's the jewel that beautifies a'.
There's Meg wi' the mailen
That fain wad a haen him;
And Susie, whose daddy was laird o' the ha';
There's lang-tocher'd Nancy
Maist fetters his fancy,
But the laddie's dear sel' he lo'es dearest of a'.

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