KATE O’ GOWRIE.[37]

TUNE—­"Locherroch Side."

    When Katie was scarce out nineteen,
    Oh, but she had twa coal-black een! 
    A bonnier lass ye wadna seen
      In a’ the Carse o’ Gowrie. 
    Quite tired o’ livin’ a’ his lane,
    Pate did to her his love explain,
    And swore he ’d be, were she his ain,
      The happiest lad in Gowrie.

    Quo’ she, “I winna marry thee,
    For a’ the gear that ye can gi’e;
    Nor will I gang a step ajee,
      For a’ the gowd in Gowrie. 
    My father will gi’e me twa kye;
    My mother ’s gaun some yarn to dye;
    I ’ll get a gown just like the sky,
      Gif I ’ll no gang to Gowrie.”

    “Oh, my dear Katie, say nae sae! 
    Ye little ken a heart that ’s wae;
    Hae! there ’s my hand; hear me, I pray,
      Sin’ thou ’lt no gang to Gowrie: 
    Since first I met thee at the shiel,
    My saul to thee ’s been true and leal;
    The darkest night I fear nae deil,
      Warlock, or witch in Gowrie.

    “I fear nae want o’ claes nor nocht,
    Sic silly things my mind ne’er taught;
    I dream a’ nicht, and start about,
      And wish for thee in Gowrie. 
    I lo’e thee better, Kate, my dear,
    Than a’ my rigs and out-gaun gear;
    Sit down by me till ance I swear,
      Thou ‘rt worth the Carse o’ Gowrie.”

    Syne on her mou’ sweet kisses laid,
    Till blushes a’ her cheeks o’erspread;
    She sigh’d, and in soft whispers said,
      “Oh, Pate, tak me to Gowrie!”
    Quo’ he, “Let ’s to the auld folk gang;
    Say what they like, I ’ll bide their bang,
    And bide a’ nicht, though beds be thrang;
      But I ’ll hae thee to Gowrie.”

    The auld folk syne baith gi’ed consent;
    The priest was ca’d:  a’ were content;
    And Katie never did repent
      That she gaed hame to Gowrie. 
    For routh o’ bonnie bairns had she;
    Mair strappin’ lads ye wadna see;
    And her braw lasses bore the gree
      Frae a’ the rest o’ Gowrie.

[37] See postea, in this volume, under article “Lady Nairn.”

UPON THE BANKS O’ FLOWING CLYDE.[38]

    Upon the banks o’ flowing Clyde
      The lasses busk them braw;
    But when their best they hae put on,
      My Jeanie dings them a’;
    In hamely weeds she far exceeds
      The fairest o’ the toun;
    Baith sage and gay confess it sae,
      Though drest in russit goun.

    The gamesome lamb that sucks its dam,
      Mair harmless canna be;
    She has nae faut, if sic ye ca’t,
      Except her love for me;
    The sparkling dew, o’ clearest hue,
      Is like her shining een;
    In shape and air wha can compare,
      Wi’ my sweet lovely Jean.