Chapter 6 No.6

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.