Than he that hugs his thousands ten,
Had I but Kath’rine Ogie.
Then I’d despise th’ imperial throne,
And statesmen’s dang’rous stations,
I’d be no king, I’d wear no crown,
I’d smile at conqu’ring nations,
Might I caress, and still possess
This lass of whom I’m vogie;
For they are toys, and still look less,
Compared with Kath’rine Ogie.
I fear the gods have not decreed
For me so fine a creature,
Whose beauty rare makes her exceed
All other works in nature.
Clouds of despair surround my love,
That are bath dark and foggie;
Pity my case, ye powers above!
Else I die for Kath’rine Ogie.
THE LASS OF ARANTEENIE.
Forlorn amang the Highland hills,
’Midst Nature’s wildest grandeur,
By rocky dens, an’ woody glens,
With weary steps I wander,
The langsome way, the darksome day,
The mountain mist sae rainy
