This text comes from The Book of Scottish Song, edited by Alexander Whitelaw, a historical songbook transcribed on Wikisource and reproduced from the pinned revision linked below.
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.