6
JEAN ANDERSON, MY JO.
Whan Nature first began, Jean,
To try her cannie hand,
It's true she first made man, Jean,
And ga'e him great command;
But naething wad content him, Jean,
Though king of a' below,
Till Heaven in pity sent him, Jean,
What maist he wished—a jo!
Though some may say I'm auld, Jean,
And say the same of thee,
Ne'er fret to hear it tauld, Jean,
You still look young to me;
And weel I mind the day, Jean,
Your breast was white as snow,
And waist sae jimp ane might it span,
Jean Anderson, my jo!
Our bonnie bairns' bairns, Jean,
With rapture do I see,
Come todlin to the fire-side,
Or sit upon my knee;
If there is pleasure here, Jean,
Or happiness below,
This surely maun be likest it,
Jean Anderson, my jo.
Though age has sillared owre my pow
Since we were first acquent,
