Geordie Young

I 'll no walk by the kirk, mother,
I 'll no walk by the manse;
I aye meet wi' the minister,
Wha looks at me askance.

What ails ye at the minister?--
A douce and sober lad;
I trow it is na every day
That siclike can be had.

I dinna like his smooth-kaim'd hair,
Nor yet his pawkie face;
I dinna like a preacher, mother,
But in a preaching place.

Then ye 'll gang down by Holylee--
Ye needna look sae scared--
For wha kens but at Holylee
Ye 'll aiblins meet the Laird?

I canna bide the Laird, mother,
He says sic things to me;
Ae half he says wi' wily words,
And ae half wi' his e'e.

Awa! awa! ye glaikit thing!
It 's a' that Geordie Young;
The Laird has no an e'e like him,
Nor the minister a tongue!

He 's fleech'd ye out o' a' ye hae,
For nane but him ye care;
But love can ne'er be lasting, bairn,
That aye gangs cauld and bare.

The faithfu' heart will aye, mother,
Put trust in ane above,
And how can folks gang bare, mother,
Wrapp'd in the faulds o' love?

Weel, lassie, walk ye by the burn,
And walk ye slow and sly;
My certie! weel ye ken the gate
That Geordie Young comes by!

His plighted troth is mine, mother,
And lang afore the spring
I 'll loose my silken snood, mother,
And wear the gowden ring.