6
Her Geordie had promised to marry,
An' Meg, a sworn fae to despair,
Not dreamin' the job could miscarry,
Already seemed mistress an' mair!
My neebours, she sang, aften jeer me,
An' ca' me daft halucket Meg,
An' say, they expect soon to hear,
I' the kirk, for my fun, get a fleg!
An' now, 'bout my marriage they clatter,
'An' Geordie, poor fallow! they ca'
An' auld doitit hav'rel!—Nae matter,
He'll keep me aye braukin an' braw!
I grant ye, his face is kenspeckle,
That the white o' his e'e is turned out,
That his black beard is rough as a heckle,
That his mou' to his lug's rax'd about;
But they needna let on that he's crazie,
His pike-staff wull ne'er let him fa';
Nor that his hair's white as a daisie,
For, fient a hair has he ava!
But a weel-plenish'd mailin has Geordie,
An' routh o' gude good in his kist;
An' if siller comes at my wordie,
His beauty I never will miss't!
Daft gouks, wha catch fire like tinder,
Think love-raptures ever wull burn!
But wi' poortith, hearts het as a cinder
Wull cauld as an iceshogle turn!
