I winna be weel.
[The following capital song is by a working blacksmith in Glasgow, of the name of Thomas Dodd, and is here printed for the first time. We have seldom seen a more ludicrous yet faithful picture of an aged wooer than it presents.—Tune, "The brisk young lad."]
I winna be weel, for I canna be weel,—
The laird an' his siller may gang in a creel,
Tho' his bauld pow had the crown on't, atweel,
I'd scorn him wi' his a'.
My mother says a laird's a catch,
My father fain wad mak' a match,
But I'll no be a gaudy wretch,
To pine my life an a'.
Was he guid as a sannt an' wise as a sage,
His wisdom or worth for my heart is nae pledge,
I wish—as a lassie should wish at my age—
Ane young, whate'er may fa'.
My truely! it's an unco sight
To see an auld blin' donert wight,
Wha scarcely kens the day frae night,
Begin a lang fraca!
Sighing—but mair for the want o' his breath
Than love at his heart, though maybe baith—
Smiling on me, as if girning guid faith,
He says, "O lass, ye're braw!"
His cauldrife jokes an' ghastly fun
He mak's an' cracks till out o' wun',
Then tells me o' his gowd an' grun,
To wyle my heart awa'.
He woo's like a beggar that's seeking his bread,
Sae pityfu'-like his e'e stands in his head,
A' trembling, just as he was in a weed,
He says, "Tak' me an' a'."
If I but smile, the body is glad;
If I but gloom, the body is sad;
For fear I put the body mad,
I daurna tell him na.