The Book of Scottish Song/Marriage and the care o't

Marriage and the care o’t.

[Written by Robert Lochore, Glasgow, about the year 1802, to the tune of "Whistle o'er the lave o't."—Mr. Lochore is author of Margaret and the Minister, Highland Donald, The Magic Pill, and other metrical tales.—Also, The Auld Sark Sleeve, A Landscape, &c.]

Quoth Rab to Kate, My sonsy dear,
I've woo'd ye mair than ha'f 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 ban'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 moi' a hearty smack,
Syne lengthen'd out a lovin' crack
⁠'Bout marriage an' the care o't.
Though as she thocht she didna speak,
Ah' lookit unco mim an' meek,
Yet blythe was she wi' Rab to cleek
⁠In marriage, wi' the care o't.

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