5
Quot‘ he, lets to the auld folk gane,
Say what they like I'll bide their bang,
And bide a’ night though beds be thrang,
But I'll hae thee to Gowrie.
The auld folk syne baith gied content,
The priest was ca’d, as were content;
And Katie never did repent,
That she gaed hame to Gowrie.
For rowth o‘ bonny bairns had she,
Mair strappin lads ye wadna see,
And her braw lasses bare the gree,
Frae all the rest of Gowrie.
LET DRUNKIRDS SING.
Tune—Willie brewed a peck of maut.
Let drunkards sing in praise of wige,
Their midnight balls and social glees;
But Scotia's sons may fidge fu’ fain,
While they hae rowth o‘ barley bree.
French brandy is but trash, shame fa‘tl
Their foreign rum I downa prie;
Gie me the sterling pith o‘ maut,
Aboon them a‘ it bears the gree.
The workman wha has toil'd all day,
Sits down at night frae labour free;
