THE GOWK

  I see the Gowk an’ the Gowk sees me
  Beside a berry-bush by the aipple-tree.
                         Old Scots Rhyme.

’Tib, my auntie’s a deil to wark,
  Has me risin’ ’afore the sun;
Aince her heid is abune her sark
  Then the clash o’ her tongue’s begun! 
Warslin’, steerin’ wi’ hens an’ swine,
Naucht kens she o’ a freend o’ mine—­
But the Gowk that bides i’ the woods o’ Dun
    He kens him fine!

Past the yaird an’ ahint the stye,
  O the aipples grow bonnilie! 
Tib, my auntie, she canna’ spy
  Wha comes creepin’ to kep wi’ me. 
Aye! she’d sort him, for, dod, she’s fell! 
Whisht nou, Jimmie, an’ hide yersel’
An’ the wice-like bird i’ the aipple-tree
    He winna’ tell!

Aprile-month, or the aipples flower,
  Tib, my auntie, will rage an’ ca’;
Jimmie lad, she may rin an’ glower—­
  What care I?  We’ll be far awa’! 
Let her seek me the leelang day,
Wha’s to tell her the road we’ll gae? 
For the cannie Gowk, tho’ he kens it a’,
    He winna’ say!

THE JACOBITE LASS

My love stood at the loanin’ side
  An’ held me by the hand,
The bonniest lad that e’er did bide
  In a’ this waefu’ land—­
There’s but ae bonnier to be seen
  Frae Pentland to the sea,
And for his sake but yestre’en
  I sent my love frae me.

I gi’ed my love the white white rose
  That’s at my feyther’s wa’,
It is the bonniest flower that grows
  Whaur ilka flower is braw;
There’s but ae bonnier that I ken
  Frae Perth unto the main,
An’ that’s the flower o’ Scotland’s men
  That’s fechtin’ for his ain.

Gin I had kept whate’er was mine
  As I hae gie’d my best,
My he’rt were licht by day, and syne
  The nicht wad bring me rest;
There is nae heavier he’rt to find
  Frae Forfar toon to Ayr,
As aye I sit me doon to mind
  On him I see nae mair.

Lad, gin ye fa’ by Chairlie’s side
  To rid this land o’ shame,
There winna be a prooder bride
  Than her ye left at hame,
But I will seek ye whaur ye sleep
  Frae lawlands to the peat,
An ilka nicht at mirk I’ll creep
  To lay me at yer feet.

MAGGIE

Maggie, I ken that ye are happ’d in glory
  And nane can gar ye greet;
The joys o’ Heaven are evermair afore ye,
  It’s licht about yer feet.

I ken nae waefu’ thochts can e’er be near ye
  Nor sorrow fash yer mind,
In yon braw place they winna let ye weary
  For him ye left behind.

Thae nichts an’ days when dule seems mair nor double
  I’ll need to dae my best,
For aye ye took the half o’ ilka trouble,
  And noo I’d hae ye rest.

Yer he’rt’ll be the same he’rt since yer flittin’,
  Gin auld love doesna tire,
Sae dinna look an’ see yer lad that’s sittin’
  His lane aside the fire.