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 riggs and out-gaun gear;
Sit down by me till ance I swear,
Thou'rt worth the Carse o' Gowrie.
Syne on her mouth sweet kisses laid,
Till blushes a' her cheeks o'erspread;
She sighed, and in soft whispers said,
O Pate, tak' me to Gowrie!
Quo' he, let's to the auld fouk 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 fouk syne baith gied 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.
The Lass o’ Gowrie.
[Modern Version.]
Upon a simmer afternoon,
A wee before the sun gade down,
My lassie, in a braw new gown,
Cam' o'er the hills to Gowrie.
The rose-bud, ting'd with morning show'r,
Blooms fresh within the sunny bow'r,
But Katie was the fairest flower
That ever bloom'd in Gowrie.
Nae thought had I to do her wrang,
But round her waist my arms I flang,
And said, My dearie, will ye gang,
To see the Carse o' Gowrie?
I'll tak' ye to my father's ha',
In yon green fields beside the shaw;
I'll mak' you lady o' them a',
The brawest wife in Gowrie.
A silken gown o' siller gray,
My mither coft last new-year's day,
And buskit me frae tap to tae,
To keep me out o' Gowrie.
Daft Will, short syne, cam' courting Nell,
And wan the lass, but what befel,
Or whare she's gane, she kens hersel',
She staid na lang in Gowrie.
Sic thoughts, dear Katie, ill combine
Wi' beauty rare, and wit like thine;
Except yoursel', my bonnie quean,
I care for nought in Gowrie.
Since first I saw you in the sheal,
To you my heart's been true and leal;
The darkest night I fear nae de'il,
Warlock, or witch, in Gowrie.
Saft kisses on her lips I laid,
The blush upon her cheeks soon spread
She whisper'd modestly, and said,
O Pate, I'll stay in Gowrie!
The auld folks soon ga'e their consent,
Syne for Mess John they quickly sent,
Wha ty'd them to their heart's content,
And now she's Lady Gowrie.
Cherry Valley.
[W. B. Sangster.—Cherry valley is a beautiful spot in the County of Down, Ireland. This song appeared in the Belfast Newsletter about 1820.]
The laverock sung at the break of day,
All in the dewy dawn;
An' the mountain bee struck a fairy lay,
As he sat on the rose new blawn.
O but it was a lovely sang
That through sweet Cherry valley rang,—
It came o'er my heart like a dream gone by,
An' it pass'd from my ears like a passing sigh.
O but it was a lovely sang,
An' the tear drap hang at my e'e—
It was nae wi' grief at the laverock's sang,
Nor the lay o' the mountain bee.
I had heard the laverock's sang before,
An' I had heard the mountain bee;
But oh! it was on Scotia's shore,
'Twas that brought the tears in my e'e.
