Ye’re richt weel buskit, yer poke is fu’,
Ye ride i’ yer ain machine;
’Twould tak a fule to hae words wi’ you
An’ no ken the gowk he’s been.

At rowp or preachin’ the best ye’ll hae,
This warld or the neist ane’s gear,
The breist[5] o’ the laft on a Sawbath day,
Or a seat by the auctioneer.

Ye’re no jist auld an’ ye arena young,
But it doesna affec’ the case,
For I’m aye that fear’d o’ a wumman’s tongue
That I’m like to forget her face.

An’ fowk says “Donal’, ye’re forty past,
I doot she’ll be fifty-three,
But ye maun settle yersel’ at last
That hasna a spare bawbee.

Oh, youth’s a ploy, but it winna bide
And a body’s gettin’ on—
What ails ye, man, at a thrifty bride
Wi’ a dandy bit hoose like yon?”

Them’s wise-like bodies I hae to thank
And mebbe they’re no far wrang;
But whiles ye’ll step frae a creakin’ plank
An’ doon i’ the glaur[6] ye’ll gang!

It’s warm, thae nichts, i’ the auld King’s Heid;
What better can ye desire
Than a lass to bring ye the dram ye need
An’ yer billies aroond the fire?

An’ wha is’t redes me to tak’ a wife?
A puckle o’ single men!
No ane, I’m thinkin’, wad risk his life
Wi’ a jaud that he disna ken!

I’ll wish ye luck an’ a braw guidman,
And weel may ye baith agree,
But I’m no seekin’ ye, Maggie-Ann,
And I doot that he’ll no be me!