Susanna Blamire

And ye shall walk in silk attire, And siller hae to spare, Gin ye’ll consent to be his bride, Nor think o’ Donald mair. O wha wad buy a silken goun Wi’ a poor broken heart! Or what’s to me a siller croun, Gin frae my love I part! The mind wha’s every wish is pure Far dearer is to me; And ere I’m forc’d to break my faith, I’ll lay me down an’ dee! For I hae pledg’d my virgin troth Brave Donald’s fate to share; And he has gi’en to me his heart, Wi’ a’ its virtues rare. His gentle manners wan my heart, He gratefu’ took the gift; Could I but think to seek it back, It wad be waur than theft! For langest life can ne’er repay The love he bears to me; And ere I’m forc’d to break my troth, I’ll lay me doun an’ dee.

O Donald! ye are just the man Who, when he’s got a wife, Begins to fratch— nae notice ta’en— They’re strangers a’ their life. The fan may drop— she takes it up, The husband keeps his chair; She hands the kettle— gives his cup— Without e’en— thank ye, dear.” Now, truly, these slights are but toys; But frae neglects like these, The wife may soon a slattern grow, And strive nae mair to please. For wooers ay do all they can To trifle wi’ the mind; They hold the blaze of beauty up, And keep the poor things blind. But wedlock tears away the veil, The goddess is nae mair; He thinks his wife a silly thing, She thinks her man a bear. Let then the lover be the friend— The loving friend for life; Think but thysel the happiest spouse, She’ll be the happiest wife.

And auld Robin Forbes hes gien tem a dance, I pat on my speckets to see them aw prance; I thout o’ the days when I was but fifteen, And skipp’d wi’ the best upon Forbes’s green. Of aw things that is I think thout is meast queer, It brings that that’s by-past and sets it down here; I see Willy as plain as I dui this bit leace, When he tuik his cwoat lappet and deeghted his feace. The lasses aw wonder’d what Willy cud see In yen that was dark and hard featur’d leyke me; And they wonder’d ay mair when they talk’d o’ my wit, And slily telt Willy that cudn’t be it: But Willy he laugh’d, and he meade me his weyfe, And whea was mair happy thro’ aw his lang leyfe? It’s e’en my great comfort, now Willy is geane, The he offen said— nae place was leyke his awn heame! I mind when I carried my wark to yon steyle Where Willy was deykin, the time to beguile, He wad fling me a daisy to put i’ my breast, And I hammer’d my noddle to mek out a jest. But merry or grave, Willy often wad tell There was nin o’ the leave that was leyke my awn sel; And he spak what he thout, for I’d hardly a plack When we married, and nobbet ae gown to my back. When the clock had struck eight I expected him heame, And wheyles went to meet him as far as Dumleane; Of aw hours it telt eight was dearest to me, But now when it streykes there’s a tear i’ my ee. O Willy! dear Willy! it never can be That age, time, or death, can divide thee and me! For that spot on earth that’s aye dearest to me, Is the turf that has cover’d my Willy frae me!