I.

O my heart! what a coil is here!

Laurie, why will ye hold me dear?

Laurie, Laurie, lad, make not wail,

With a wiser lass ye'll sure prevail,

For ye sing like a woodland nightingale.

And there's no sense in it under the sun;

For of three that woo I can take but one,

So what's to be done — what's to be done?

And

There's no sense in it under the sun.

Hal, brave Hal, from your foreign parts

Come home you'll choose among kinder hearts.

Forget, forget, you're too good to hold

A fancy‘ t were best should faint, grow cold,

And fade like an August marigold;

For of three that woo I can take but one,

And what's to be done — what's to be done?

There's no sense in it under the sun,

And

Of three that woo I can take but one.

Geordie, Geordie, I count you true,

Though language sweet I have none for you.

Nay, but take me home to the churning mill

When cherry boughs white on yon mounting hill

Hang over the tufts o’ the daffodil.

For what's to be done — what's to be done?

Of three that woo I must e'en take one,

Or there's no sense in it under the sun,

And

What's to be done — what's to be done?