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William Miller

Ye Cowe a

AIR.---"Comin' through the Rye."

I wiled my lass wi' loving words to Kelvin's leafy shade,
And a' that fondest heart can feel, or tongue can tell I said;
But nae reply my lassie gied---I blam'd the waterfa',
Its deavin' soun' my voice did drown---O this cowes a'!
O this cowes a', quo I, O this cowes a'!
I wonder how the birds can woo---O this cowes a'!

I wiled my lass wi' loving words to Kelvin's solemn grove,
Where silence, in her dewy bowers, hush'd a' sounds but o' love;
Still frae my earnest looks and vows, she turned her head awa',
Nae cheering word the silence heard---O this cowes a'!
O this cowes a', quo I, O this cowes a'!
To woo I'll try anither way, for this cowes a'!

I wiled my lass wi' loving words to where the moonlight fell,
Upon a bank of blooming flowers, beside the pear-tree well;
Say, modest moon, did I do wrang to clasp her waist sae sma'
And steal ae kiss o' honied bliss?---O, ye cowe a'!
O ye cowe a', quo' she, O ye cowe a'!
Ye might ha'e speer'd a body's leave---but ye cowe a'!

I'll to the clerk, quo' I, sweet lass, on Sunday we'll be cried,
And frae your father's house, next day, ye'll gang a dear lo'ed bride---
Quo' she, I'd need anither week to mak' a gown mair braw---
The gown ye ha'e we'll mak it do---O ye cowe a'!
O ye cowe a', quo' she, O ye cowe a'!
But wilfu' folk maun ha'e their way---O ye cowe a'!

Jun 2, 2007


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