Jamie's bad wife/Chapter 1
JAMlE’s BAD WIFE.
O JAMIE lad, hear my advice,
And warnin’ tak’ by me, man;
For if ye get a wife like me,
You’ll rue’t until ye die, man;
For when lhrt I was in my youth.
Like you, I then cou’d quench my drouth,
But now I darena wet my mouth,
For Maggy’s tongue, de’il drive her south
To some place far awa’, man.
On Sunday, if I spier for Will,
She swears I’m seeking drink, man;
Then o’er my head, wi’ furious rage,
The tangs aloud will clink, man.
This is the life that I must bear,
She’ll harle out my very hair;
And then she’ll rage, and curse, and swear,
And cry, Ye dog, I’ll gi’e ye mair,
Tho’ for ye I should die, man.
And, Jamie, when I got her first,
I thought mysel’ enrich’d, man!
Her beauty, and her bonny claes
They had me sae bewitch’d, man.
I had nae power to see her ill,
She led me ⟨captive⟩ at her will,
Poor simple youth, I hadna skill,
But thought that she was like mysel’,
For love and unity, man.
But when the fatal knot was tied,
I found I was betray'd', man;
For she was fill’d wi' nought but strife,
And foolish empty pride, man.
I sit as mute as ony sot,
Wi' no a word out o’ my throat,
Till o’er my head the chamber-pot
In twenty pieces it is broke,
And then I’m forc’d to flee, man.
And if her wants I can’t supply,
She’ll flee like fire on me, man;
And let the pinch be ne'er so great,
She cries aloud for tea, man.
And if I bid her gang to wirk,
She flees at me like ony Turk;
Wi’ venom she could cut my throat,
Or shoot me dead upon the spot:
She’s fill’d with cruelty, man.
Some says that I should thresh her weel,
And I should toon her hide, man;
The oil o’ a gude hazel rung,
They say, would lay her pride, man.
But I dinna like to try that plan,
It mak’s but little o’ a man,
To say that he wou’d lift his han’;
For instance, there, our neighbour Tam,
He’s just as ill as me, man.
But Jamie, whan ye wale a wife,
Lay beauty a’ aside, man;
The pleasures o’ a virtuous wife
Are beyond a bonny bride, man:
Think on their wild deceitful ways,
Their painted cheeks, and bonny claes;
They’re like a stockin’ fu’ o’ flaes,
That will torment ye a’ your days,
Until the day ye die, man.
For the brawest lasses, aft, I see,
Turns out the greatest daw’s, man;
For when a man and bairns they get,
It’s rags in place o’ braws, man.
But whan a wife ye gang to seek,
Look for ane that’s mild and meek,
Wi’ modesty on ilka cheek,
And then ycur joys will be complete
Until the day ye die, man.
✸xxxxxxxxxxxxxx++xxxxxxxxxxxx✸