"I canna be fashed."
[Edward Polin, late of Paisley, now connected with "The Edinburgh Weekly Chronicle" Newspaper.—Here first printed.]
The deil's in the hizzies,
Thae lassies o' mine!—
Though there's a' things to do,
Baith the rough wark an' fine;
Though the breid's a' to bake,
An' the claes maun be washed,
There they'll sit an' they'll tell me
They "canna be fashed!"
Was ever the like o't?—
Sic gentle affairs!
Na! the jauds are gane gyte
Wi' their braws an' their airs;
My certes! I think
Wi' the tangs I'd been smashed,
Gin I'd said to my mither,
"I canna be fashed!"
But noo the bit lassocks
Ha'e grown sae genteel,
Wi' their books an' pianos
For seams an' the wheel;
Gin ye ask them to help ye,
Just hear hoo your snashed—
"'Deed, mither, I tell you
I canna be fashed!"
An' then there's sic wailing
For phrases sae fine,
That they're a' liker ledies
Than dochters o' mine;
But suns whan at hame
A' sic clavers are quashed,
For Scotch-like they'll tell me
They "canna be fashed."
Wi' their veils an' their earrings,
An' boas—keep me!
The pride o' thae lassies
It's awfu' to see.
Mak' them ledies indeed!
Na, their chaffs should be clashed,
Whan they offer to tell me
They "canna be fashed!"
But bide ye awee
Till the tawpies get men,
An' maun e'en gang their wa's
To their ain butt an' ben,—
An' ha'e bairnies wha greet
Till they're baith fed an' washed,
We'll see gin they'll cry then
They "canna be fashed!"