I see the Gowk an’ the Gowk sees
Beside a berry-bush by the aipple-tree.
Old Scots Rhyme.
’Tib, my auntie’s a deil to wark,
Has me risin’ ’afore the sun;
Aince her heid is abune her sark
Then the clash o’ her tongue’s begun!
Warslin’, steerin’ wi’ hens an’ swine,
Naucht kens she o’ a freend o’ mine—
But the Gowk that bides i’ the woods o’ Dun
He kens him fine!
Past the yaird an’ ahint the stye,
O the aipples grow bonnilie!
Tib, my auntie, she canna’ spy
Wha comes creepin’ to kep wi’ me.
Aye! she’d sort him, for, dod, she’s fell!
Whisht nou, Jimmie, an’ hide yersel’
An’ the wice-like bird i’ the aipple-tree
He winna’ tell!
Aprile-month, or the aipples flower,
Tib, my auntie, will rage an’ ca’;
Jimmie lad, she may rin an’ glower—
What care I? We’ll be far awa’!
Let her seek me the leelang day,
Wha’s to tell her the road we’ll gae?
For the cannie Gowk, tho’ he kens it a’,
He winna’ say!
THE JACOBITE LASS
My love stood at the loanin’ side
An’ held me by the hand,
The bonniest lad that e’er did bide
In a’ this waefu’ land—
There’s but ae bonnier to be seen
Frae Pentland to the sea,
And for his sake but yestre’en
I sent my love frae me.
I gi’ed my love the white white rose
That’s at my feyther’s wa’,
It is the bonniest flower that grows
Whaur ilka flower is braw;
There’s but ae bonnier that I ken
Frae Perth unto the main,
An’ that’s the flower o’ Scotland’s men
That’s fechtin’ for his ain.
Gin I had kept whate’er was mine
As I hae gie’d my best,
My he’rt were licht by day, and syne
The nicht wad bring me rest;
There is nae heavier he’rt to find
Frae Forfar toon to Ayr,
As aye I sit me doon to mind
On him I see nae mair.
Lad, gin ye fa’ by Chairlie’s side
To rid this land o’ shame,
There winna be a prooder bride
Than her ye left at hame,
But I will seek ye whaur ye sleep
Frae lawlands to the peat,
An ilka nicht at mirk I’ll creep
To lay me at yer feet.
Maggie, I ken that ye are happ’d in glory
And nane can gar ye greet;
The joys o’ Heaven are evermair afore ye,
It’s licht about yer feet.
I ken nae waefu’ thochts can e’er be near
Nor sorrow fash yer mind,
In yon braw place they winna let ye weary
For him ye left behind.
Thae nichts an’ days when dule seems mair nor
I’ll need to dae my best,
For aye ye took the half o’ ilka trouble,
And noo I’d hae ye rest.
Yer he’rt’ll be the same he’rt since
Gin auld love doesna tire,
Sae dinna look an’ see yer lad that’s sittin’
His lane aside the fire.