Willie Winkie and Other Songs and Poems By William Miller: Edited, with an Introduction by Robert Ford |
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Oor Gude Dochter.
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 | Willie Winkie and Other Songs and Poems |  |
60
Oor Gude Dochter.
O Love, thou'rt a queer ane, thou gi'est each maid
A waff o' the bright robe in which thou'rt arrayed.
The common, the comely, the big, an' the wee,
Wi' black, brown, or red hair, it's a' ane to thee.
Thou mak'st her wha's to be a wild randy through life,
As mim's a May-puddock, afore she's a wife;
They're made a' bewitchin', the good an' the bad anes—
It's like chance, if we're blest men or sad anes.
A waff o' the bright robe in which thou'rt arrayed.
The common, the comely, the big, an' the wee,
Wi' black, brown, or red hair, it's a' ane to thee.
Thou mak'st her wha's to be a wild randy through life,
As mim's a May-puddock, afore she's a wife;
They're made a' bewitchin', the good an' the bad anes—
It's like chance, if we're blest men or sad anes.
A well-to-do-chiel, wi' mair on him than in him,
A tawpie drest up like a peacock may win him;
He'll fin' to his cost what his een had been shut on—
He's tied to a drab, canna sew on a button.
Our son, wi' mair sense, wal'd a wise lookin' hizzie,
He scarce cud get courtin', she aye was sae busy.
'Tween this gude toon o' ours an' the Kingdom o' Fife,
Where she comes frae, I'm bounden there's no sic a wife.
A tawpie drest up like a peacock may win him;
He'll fin' to his cost what his een had been shut on—
He's tied to a drab, canna sew on a button.
Our son, wi' mair sense, wal'd a wise lookin' hizzie,
He scarce cud get courtin', she aye was sae busy.
'Tween this gude toon o' ours an' the Kingdom o' Fife,
Where she comes frae, I'm bounden there's no sic a wife.
She can back-spley and fore-spley; can white seam and sew,
Mak' stockin's an' mittens, an' nick-nacks that you
Nor I ken the name o', she whiles mak's a mat,
A braw leddy's plaidie, or veil for a hat.
But her han' is aye eydent, for better or worse,
In her husseycap oft'ner by far than her purse.
An' when your son gets marriet ye'll think as I think,
A thrifty wife's better than ane owre perjink.
Mak' stockin's an' mittens, an' nick-nacks that you
Nor I ken the name o', she whiles mak's a mat,
A braw leddy's plaidie, or veil for a hat.
But her han' is aye eydent, for better or worse,
In her husseycap oft'ner by far than her purse.
An' when your son gets marriet ye'll think as I think,
A thrifty wife's better than ane owre perjink.
61
At meal times, when “Stephen” so saftly is said,
“Twa words, if you please,” then a loot o' the head,
Then the han' that is lifted to shade her sweet face
Is such that a painter would linger to trace.
Flow'rs blawin', burns wimplin', or song o' a bird,
Is nought to a sweet voice that wiles to the Lord;
So a' put thegither, come weal or come wae,
I opine that's the wife that a young man should hae.
“Twa words, if you please,” then a loot o' the head,
Then the han' that is lifted to shade her sweet face
Is such that a painter would linger to trace.
Flow'rs blawin', burns wimplin', or song o' a bird,
Is nought to a sweet voice that wiles to the Lord;
So a' put thegither, come weal or come wae,
I opine that's the wife that a young man should hae.
And they've got a wee bairn that I lo'e as mysel'—
At the fire a'e nicht sittin', says my wifie, Bell,
“Now, William, be honest and tell unto me
What's your real opinion o' little Bessie,”
An' we think, an' confab, what she will be or may,
An' she's just a wee darling is a' we can say.
Twa wither'd han's lockit an' furrow'd cheeks wet,
But Hope dried them kindly, for sake o' our pet.
At the fire a'e nicht sittin', says my wifie, Bell,
“Now, William, be honest and tell unto me
What's your real opinion o' little Bessie,”
An' we think, an' confab, what she will be or may,
An' she's just a wee darling is a' we can say.
Twa wither'd han's lockit an' furrow'd cheeks wet,
But Hope dried them kindly, for sake o' our pet.
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