Part 77

A ROSE

'Twas a Jacqueminot rose That she gave me at parting; Sweetest flower that blows, 'Twas a Jacqueminot rose. In the love garden close, With the swift blushes starting, 'Twas a Jacqueminot rose That she gave me at parting.

If she kissed it, who knows - Since I will not discover, And love is that close, If she kissed it, who knows? Or if not the red rose Perhaps then the lover! If she kissed it, who knows, Since I will not discover.

Yet at least with the rose Went a kiss that I'm wearing! More I will not disclose, Yet at least with the rose Went whose kiss no one knows, - Since I'm only declaring, "Yet at least with the rose Went a kiss that I'm wearing."

Arlo Bates [1850-1918]

"WOOED AND MARRIED AND A'"

The bride cam' out o' the byre, And oh, as she dighted her cheeks: "Sirs, I'm to be married the night, And ha'e neither blankets nor sheets; Ha'e neither blankets nor sheets, Nor scarce a coverlet too; The bride that has a' thing to borrow, Has e'en right muckle ado!" Wooed and married, and a', Married and wooed and a'! And was she nae very weel aff, That was wooed and married and a'?

Out spake the bride's father, As he cam' in frae the pleugh: "Oh, haud your tongue, my dochter, And ye'se get gear eneugh; The stirk stands i' the tether, And our braw bawsint yaud, Will carry ye hame your corn - What wad ye be at, ye jaud?"

Out spake the bride's mither: "What deil needs a' this pride? I had nae a plack in my pouch That night I was a bride; My gown was linsey woolsey, And ne'er a sark ava; And ye ha'e ribbons and buskins, Mair than ane or twa."

Out spake the bride's brither, As he cam' in wi' the kye: "Poor Willie wad ne'er ha'e ta'en ye, Had he kent ye as weel as I; For ye're baith proud and saucy And no for a puir man's wife; Gin I canna get a better, I'se ne'er tak' ane i' my life."

Out spake the bride's sister, As she cam' in frae the byre: "O gin I were but married, It's a' that I desire; But we puir folk maun live single, And do the best we can; I dinna ken what I should want, If I could get but a man!"

Alexander Ross [1699-1784]

"OWRE THE MUIR AMANG THE HEATHER"

Comin' though the craigs o' Kyle, Amang the bonnie bloomin' heather, There I met a bonnie lassie, Keepin' a' her ewes thegither.

Owre the muir amang the heather, Owre the muir amang the heather; There I met a bonnie lassie, Keepin' a' her ewes thegither.

Says I, My dear, where is thy hame, - In muir or dale, pray tell me whether? She says, I tent the fleecy flocks That feed amang the bloomin' heather.

We laid us down upon a bank, Sae warm and sunny was the weather: She left her flocks at large to rove Amang the bonnie bloomin' heather.

While thus we lay, she sung a sang, Till echo rang a mile and farther; And aye the burden of the sang Was, Owre the muir amang the heather.

She charmed my heart, and aye sinsyne I couldna think on ony ither: By sea and sky! she shall be mine, The bonnie lass amang the heather.

Jean Glover [1758-1801]

MARRIAGE AND THE CARE O'T

Quoth Rab to Kate, My sonsy dear, I've wooed ye mair than ha' a year, An' if ye'd wed me ne'er cou'd speer, Wi' blateness, an' the care o't. Now to the point: sincere I'm wi't: Will ye be my ha'f-marrow, sweet? Shake han's, and say a bargain be't An' ne'er think on the care o't.

Na, na, quo' Kate, I winna wed, O' sic a snare I'll aye be rede; How mony, thochtless, are misled By marriage, an' the care o't! A single life's a life o' glee, A wife ne'er think to mak' o' me, Frae toil an' sorrow I'll keep free, An' a' the dool an' care o't.

Weel, weel, said Robin, in reply, Ye ne'er again shall me deny, Ye may a toothless maiden die For me, I'll tak' nae care o't. Fareweel for ever! - aff I hie; - Sae took his leave without a sigh; Oh! stop, quo' Kate, I'm yours, I'll try The married life, an' care o't.

Rab wheel't about, to Kate cam' back, An' ga'e her mou' a hearty smack, Syne lengthened out a lovin' crack 'Bout marriage an' the care o't. Though as she thocht she didna speak, An' lookit unco mim an' meek, Yet blithe was she wi' Rab to cleek, In marriage, wi' the care o't.

Robert Lochore [1762-1852]

THE WOMEN FOLK

O sairly may I rue the day I fancied first the womenkind; For aye sinsyne I ne'er can ha'e Ae quiet thought or peace o' mind! They ha'e plagued my heart, an' pleased my e'e, An' teased an' flattered me at will, But aye, for a' their witchery, The pawky things! I lo'e them still. O, the women folk! O, the women folk, But they ha'e been the wreck o' me; O, weary fa' the women folk, For they winna let a body be!