Muirland Meg

Among our young lassies there's Muirland Meg, She'll beg or she work, & she'll play or she beg, At thirteen her maidenhead flew to the gate, And the door o' her cage stands open yet. And for a sheep-cloot she'll do't, she'll do't, And for a sheep-cloot she'll do't; And for a toop-horn she'll do't to the morn, And merrily turn and do't, and do't. Her kittle black een they wad thirl you thro'. Her rose-bud lips cry, kiss me now; The curls and links o' her bonie black hair, Wad put you in mind that the lassie has mair. And for a sheep-cloot she'll do't, she'll do't, And for a sheep-cloot she'll do't; And for a toop-horn she'll do't to the morn, And merrily turn and do't, and do't. An armfu' o' love is her bosom sae plump, A span o' delight is her middle sae jimp; A taper, white leg, and a thumpin thie, And a fiddle near by, an ye play a wee! And for a sheep-cloot she'll do't, she'll do't, And for a sheep-cloot she'll do't; And for a toop-horn she'll do't to the morn, And merrily turn and do't, and do't. Love's her delight, and kissin's her treasure; She'll stick at nae price, and ye gie her gude measure, As lang's a sheep-fit, and as girt's a goose-egg, And that's the measure o' Muirland Meg. And for a sheep-cloot she'll do't, she'll do't, And for a sheep-cloot she'll do't; And for a toop-horn she'll do't to the morn, And merrily turn and do't, and do't.