Song,
IN ANSWER TO
“O Nannie wilt thou gang wi’ me.”
No! Sandie, I will never gang,
Ye’ll trudge through life alane for me,
For aft’ a wife maun thole the wrang,
And I sic scaith will never dree.
I’ll busk mysel’ as neat’s I can,
And claes becoming me will wear,
Though ne’er admir’d by ony man,
Or flatter’d, fairest of the fair.
When far awa frae kith and kin,
I’d cast a look behind, I ween,
For you to change might soon begin,
And dwinin’ fondness die wi spleen.
Puir Nannie’s tender form would sink,
If bound your cauld-rife looks to bear,
Just now’s the time for her to think,
Though flatter’d, fairest of the fair.
Weak woman can misfortunes brave,
To man in straits is aft’ a frien’—
That’s right, a friend, but not a slave!
’Twere silly to descend so mean.
Some clowns in health do women scorn,
But aye in sickness claim their care;
Sic deem our sex their servants born,
We spurn the thought baith brown and fair.
Yet should you wi’ mischanters meet,
And under pain or poortith bow,
I’m no sae fu’ o’ deadly hate,
But I would help to succour you.
Your grave I dinna wish to see,
Nor strew, nor gather flowers there;
Live if you can to bury me,
Ance flatter’d, fairest of the fair.