 | The Poetry of Robert Burns |  |
WHISTLE O'ER THE LAVE O'T
I
First when Maggie was my care,Heav'n, I thought, was in her air;
Now we're married, spier nae mair,
But—whistle o'er the lave o't!
Meg was meek, and Meg was mild,
Sweet and harmless as a child:
Wiser men than me's beguiled—
Whistle o'er the lave o't!
II
How we live, my Meg and me,How we love, and how we gree,
I care na by how few may see—
Whistle o'er the lave o't!
Wha I wish were maggots' meat,
Dish'd up in her winding-sheet,
I could write (but Meg wad see't)—
Whistle o'er the lave o't!
| The Poetry of Robert Burns | |