ADAM
Ye’re richt weel buskit, yer poke is fu’,Ye ride i’ yer ain machine;’Twould tak a fule to hae words wi’ youAn’ no ken the gowk he’s been.At rowp or preachin’ the best ye’ll hae,This warld or the neist ane’s gear,The breist[5]o’ the laft on a Sawbath day,Or a seat by the auctioneer.Ye’re no jist auld an’ ye arena young,But it doesna affec’ the case,For I’m aye that fear’d o’ a wumman’s tongueThat I’m like to forget her face.An’ fowk says “Donal’, ye’re forty past,I doot she’ll be fifty-three,But ye maun settle yersel’ at lastThat hasna a spare bawbee.Oh, youth’s a ploy, but it winna bideAnd a body’s gettin’ on—What ails ye, man, at a thrifty brideWi’ a dandy bit hoose like yon?”Them’s wise-like bodies I hae to thankAnd mebbe they’re no far wrang;But whiles ye’ll step frae a creakin’ plankAn’ doon i’ the glaur[6]ye’ll gang!It’s warm, thae nichts, i’ the auld King’s Heid;What better can ye desireThan a lass to bring ye the dram ye needAn’ yer billies aroond the fire?An’ wha is’t redes me to tak’ a wife?A puckle o’ single men!No ane, I’m thinkin’, wad risk his lifeWi’ a jaud that he disna ken!I’ll wish ye luck an’ a braw guidman,And weel may ye baith agree,But I’m no seekin’ ye, Maggie-Ann,And I doot that he’ll no be me!
FOOTNOTES:[5]The front seat in the gallery.[6]Mud.
[5]The front seat in the gallery.
[5]The front seat in the gallery.
[6]Mud.
[6]Mud.