7
Auld John Paul had a widower been
For towmonds, they said, about twal' or threteen;
Yet it lap in his head—tho’ I’m now turnin’ auld,
I may yet get a help-meet, thinks auld John Paul.
Sae he daunert down to Nanse M'Nees,
Wha keepit the sign o’ the gowd cross-keys;
A cantie widow, baith stout an’ hale,
Wha had sav’d a bit trifle by sellin’ ale.
Sae he ca’d for a dram, and begoud to crack,
An’ syne about wedlock a joke he brak’,
While the kimmer she leugh, an' said, sooth, but ye’re baul’,
Wad ye yet face the minister, auld John Paul.
The kintra says ye’re a douse auld man,
But I really think ye’re a crouse auld man,
Wha yet wad mell wi’ anither wife,
When ye’ve sprauchilt sae far up tho hill o’ life;
Ye hae routh to keep ony wife bien, John Paul,
I’m redd ye’se get ane at fifteen, John Paul,
To look on your spunk, it’s new life to the saul,
Your the flower o’ the clachan yoursel’, John Paul.
Nae glaikit young jillet for me, quo’ John,
Tho’ I hae a billet for thee, quo’ John,
Gin the smith ye’ll discard, wi’ his lang sooty beard,
Ye’se my siller get ilka bawbee, quo’ John;
An’ nae mair wi’ the souter ye’ll fash, quo’ John,
For he’s drucken ilk plack o’ his cash, quo’ John,
An’ the miller’s gane thro’ a’ his mailin, I trow,
And forbye, he’s a daft gom’ral hash, quo’ John.
