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And tho' at oar fate we may sadly repine,
Youth winna return, nor the strength o' lang syne.
When after our conquests, it joys me to mind,
How thy Jean caress'd thee and my Meg was kind:
They shar'd a' our dangers tho' ever sae hard,
Nor car'd we for plunder when sic our reward;
Ev'n now they're rosolv'd baith their hames to resign,
And to share the hard fate they were used to lang syne.
THE LASS O' GOWRIE.
Upon a simmer afternoon,
A wee before the sun gade down,
My lassie in a braw new gown,
Cam o'er the hi'ls 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?
