Mary Cowley.
[Alexander Laing.]
Mary ance had mony a charm,
Few could boast o' half sae mony;
In ilka day an' Sunday claes,
Mary aye was neat and bonnie.
But the fairest flow'r o' May
Is nae in a' the wreath o' July;
And now amang the maidens gay,
Ye winna meet wi' Mary Cowley!
Mary ance had mony a lad,
Few could boast o' half sae mony;
But ah! the silly fickle maid,
The newest aye was best of ony.
Now the laddies woo nae mair,
Now the lassie rues her folly;
And dowie are the wearie days
An' lanely nights o' Mary Cowley!
Lassie, I maun leave you too,
Though I lo'e you best o' ony;
Ye ha'e wooers mony ane,
Ye winna ken the want o' Johnny!
Lassie, yet, afore we part,
O, tak' the lad that lo'es you truly,
Lest ye be left wi' shame an' wae,
To dree the fate o' Mary Cowley.
Sae will we yet.
[Written many years ago by Walter Watson, a weaver in Kirkintilloch.]
Sit ye down here, my cronies, and gi'e us your crack,
Let the win' tak' the care o' this life on its back,
Our hearts to despondency we never will submit,
For we've aye been provided for, and sae will we yet.
And sae will we yet, &c.
Let the miser delight in the hoarding of pelf,
Since he has not the saul to enjoy it himself:
Since the bounty of providence is new ev'ry day,
As we journey through life, let us live by the way.
Let us live by the way, &c.
Then bring us a tankard o' nappy gude ale;
For to comfort our hearts and enliven the tale;
We'll aye be the merrier the langer we sit,
For we've drank thegither mony a time, and sae will we yet.
And sae will we yet, &c.
Success to the farmer, and prosper his plough,
Bewarding his eident toils a' the year through!
Our seed time and harvest we ever will get,
For we've lippen'd aye to providence, and sae will we yet.
And sae will we yet, &c.
Long live the king, and happy may he be,
And success to his forces by land and by sea!
His enemies to triumph we never will permit,
Britons aye have been victorious, and sae will they yet.
And sae will they yet, &c.
Let the glass keep its course, and go merrily roun',
For the sun has to rise, though the moon it goes down.
Till the house be rinnin' roun' about, it's time enough to flit,
When we fell, we aye got up again, and sae will we yet.
And sae will we yet, &c.
Blythe are we set.
[Written by Ebenezer Picken, a native of Paisley, whose poems were published at Edinburgh in 1813, in two small vols. He died in 1815 or 1816.]
Blythe are we set wi' ither;
Fling care ayont the moon;
Nae sae aft we meet thegither!
Wha wad think o' parting soon?
Though snaw bends down the forest trees,
And burn and river cease to flow;
Though nature's tide has shor'd to freeze,
And winter nithers a' below.
Blythe are we, &c.
Now, round the ingle cheerly met,
We'll scog the blast and dread nae harm,
Wi' jaws o' toddy reeking het,
