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That she would no husband get,
And be forc’d to die a maid.
O mother I’ll have a man,
If there be one to be had;
For there lives Andrew Carr,
A bonny backsome lad.
He says he likes me well,
And what can I say mair?
O mother, if you think fit
The priest will mak us a pair.
Begone, you muckle gowk,
And a bonny pair you’ll be,
For how do you think he can
Maintain himself and thee?
There’s naething between you twa.
But the claes upon your back;
And when you married are,
There’s many a thing you lack.
O mother you are cross,
As cross as you can be,
For there lives Peggy Patch,
She’s twa years younger than me.
They had nae wealth of gear;
We hae as muckle as them,
And when they married were
You never did them blame.
O how could I them blame,
