Poems and Songs By Robert Gilfillan. Fourth edition. With memoir of the author, and appendix of his latest pieces |
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PITY THE LADS THAT ARE FREE. |
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 | Poems and Songs |  |
20
PITY THE LADS THAT ARE FREE.
Pity the lads that are free,
Pity the chiels that are single;
For gude sake! tak pity on me,
I'm teased night and day wi' Jean Pringle.
For lasses I carena a preen,
My heart's my ain, an' I'm cheery,
An' were't na for that cutty Jean,
I'd sleep as soun' as a peerie!
Pity the chiels that are single;
For gude sake! tak pity on me,
I'm teased night and day wi' Jean Pringle.
For lasses I carena a preen,
My heart's my ain, an' I'm cheery,
An' were't na for that cutty Jean,
I'd sleep as soun' as a peerie!
What's beauty?—it a' lies in taste!
For nane o't wad I gie a bodle;
But her's hauntin' me like a ghaist,
Is whiles like to turn my noddle!
She's wooers—but what's that to me?
They're walcome to dance a' about her;
Yet I like na her smiling sae slee
To lang Sandy Lingles the souter!
For nane o't wad I gie a bodle;
But her's hauntin' me like a ghaist,
Is whiles like to turn my noddle!
She's wooers—but what's that to me?
They're walcome to dance a' about her;
Yet I like na her smiling sae slee
To lang Sandy Lingles the souter!
21
Yestreen I cam in frae the plew,
The lasses were a' busy spinnin';
I stoiter'd as if I'd been fou,
For Jeanie a sang was beginnin'.
I hae heard fifty maids sing,
Whiles ane, an' whiles a' thegither;
But nane did the starting tears bring,
Till she sang the “Braes o' Balquhither.”
The lasses were a' busy spinnin';
I stoiter'd as if I'd been fou,
For Jeanie a sang was beginnin'.
I hae heard fifty maids sing,
Whiles ane, an' whiles a' thegither;
But nane did the starting tears bring,
Till she sang the “Braes o' Balquhither.”
Last Sunday, when gaun to the kirk,
I met wi' my auld aunty Beenie,
I looked as stupid's a stirk
When she simply said—“How is Jeanie?”
An' at e'en, when I, wi' the rest,
Was carritch'd, baith Larger and Single,
When speered—Wham we suld like best?
I stammer'd out—“Young Jeanie Pringle!”
I met wi' my auld aunty Beenie,
I looked as stupid's a stirk
When she simply said—“How is Jeanie?”
An' at e'en, when I, wi' the rest,
Was carritch'd, baith Larger and Single,
When speered—Wham we suld like best?
I stammer'd out—“Young Jeanie Pringle!”
Last week I gaed in to the fair,
To wair out my Hallowmans guinea,
When, wha suld I fa' in wi' there,
A' dinkit out finely—but Jeanie!
I couldna gang by her for shame,
I couldna but speak, else be saucy,
Sae I had to oxter her hame,
An' buy a silk snood to the lassie.
To wair out my Hallowmans guinea,
When, wha suld I fa' in wi' there,
A' dinkit out finely—but Jeanie!
I couldna gang by her for shame,
I couldna but speak, else be saucy,
Sae I had to oxter her hame,
An' buy a silk snood to the lassie.
22
It's no but she's baith gude an' fair,
It's no but she's winsome and bonnie:
Her een, glancing 'neath gowden hair,
Are brighter, I daursay, than ony.
But pawkie een's naething to me,
Of gowd locks I want nae the straikin';
Folk speak about love—but they'll see
For ance, by my faith! they're mistaken.
It's no but she's winsome and bonnie:
Her een, glancing 'neath gowden hair,
Are brighter, I daursay, than ony.
But pawkie een's naething to me,
Of gowd locks I want nae the straikin';
Folk speak about love—but they'll see
For ance, by my faith! they're mistaken.
I promised the lasses a spree,
I promised the lads a paradin',
I canna well hae't—let me see—
Unless I get up a bit waddin'.
I think I'll send ower for the clark,
He might cry us out the neist Sunday;
It's winter—we're nae thrang at wark,
Sae I think I'll just marry gin Monday!
I promised the lads a paradin',
I canna well hae't—let me see—
Unless I get up a bit waddin'.
I think I'll send ower for the clark,
He might cry us out the neist Sunday;
It's winter—we're nae thrang at wark,
Sae I think I'll just marry gin Monday!
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