My Grannie spent a merry youth,
She niver wantit for a joe,
An gin she tell’t me aye the truth,
Richt little was’t she kent na o’.
An’ whiles afore she gae’d awa’
To bed her doon below the grass,
Says she, “Guidmen I’ve kistit twa,
But a change o’ deils is lichtsome, lass!”
Sae dinna think to maister me,
For Scotland’s fu’ o’ brawlike chiels,
And aiblins ither folk ye’ll see
Are fine an’ pleased to change their deils.
Aye, set yer bonnet on yer heid,
An’ cock it up upon yer bree,
O’ a’ yer tricks ye’ll hae some need
Afore ye get the best o’ me!
Sma’ wark to fill yer place I’d hae,
I’ll seek a sweethe’rt i’ the toon,
Or cast my he’rt across the Spey
An’ tak’ some pridefu’ Hieland loon.
I ken a man has hoose an’ land,
His airm is stoot, his een are blue,
A ring o’ gowd is on his hand,
An’ he’s a bonnier man nor you!
But hoose an’ gear an’ land an’
He’d gie them a’ to get the preen
That preened the flowers in till my hair
Beside the may-bush yestre’en.
Jist tak’ you tent, an’ mind forbye,
The braw guid sense my Grannie had,
My Grannie’s dochter’s bairn am I,
And a change o’ deils is lichtsome, lad!
 Coffined.  Sometimes.
I’m fairly disjaskit, Christina,
The warld an’ its glories are toom;
I’m laid like a stane whaur ye left me,
To greet wi’ my heid i’ the broom.
A’ day has the lav’rock been singin’
Up yont, far awa’ i’ the blue,
I thocht that his sang was sae bonnie,
Bit it disna’ seem bonnie the noo!
A’ day has the cushie been courtin’
His joe i’ the boughs o’ the ash,
But gin Love was wheeped frae the pairish,
It isn’t mysel’ that wad fash!
For losh! what a wark I’ve had wi’ ye!
At mairkit, at kirk, an’ at fair,
I’ve ne’er let anither lad near ye—
An’ what can a lassie need mair?
An’ oh! but I’ve socht ye an’ watched
Whauriver yer fitsteps was set,
Gin ye had but yer neb i’ the gairden
I was aye glowerin’ in at the yett!
Ye’ll mind when ye sat at the windy,
Dressed oot in yer fine Sawbath black,
Richt brawly I kent that ye saw me,
But ye just slippit oot at the back.
Christina, ’twas shamefu’—aye
Affrontin’ a man like mysel’,
I’m thinkin’ ye’re daft, for what ails ye
Is past comprehension to tell.
Guid stuff’s no sae common, Christina,
And whiles it’s no easy to see;
Ye micht tryst wi’ the Laird or the Provost,
But ye’ll no find the marrows o’ me!
THE LAST O’ THE TINKLER
Lay me in yon place, lad,
The gloamin’s thick wi’ nicht;
I canna’ see yer face, lad,
For my een’s no richt,
But it’s owre late for leein’,
An’ I ken fine I’m deein’,
Like an auld craw fleein’
To the last o’ the licht.