The Weaver’s Wife
[From Blackwood's Magazine.—Air, "The Boatie Rows."]
Oh! weel befa' the busy loom
That plies the hale day lang;
And, clicking briskly, fills the room
Wi' sic a cheery sang.
Oh! weel befa' the eident han'
That cleeds us, great and sma',
And blessings on the kind gudeman
That dearly lo'es us a'.
Our purse is low, our lot is mean,
But waur it well might be:
Our house is canty aye and clean,
Our hearts frae canker free.
We fash wi' nae ambitious scheme,
Nor heed affairs o' state;
We dinna strive against the stream,
Or murmur at our fate.
Oh! mickle is the wealth that springs
Frae industry and peace,
Where nae reproach o' conscience stings,
And a' repinin's cease.
The heart will loathe the richest meat,
If nae kind blessin's sent:
The coarsest morsel will be sweet
When kitchen'd wi' content.
Oh! wad the Power that rules o'er life
Impart some gracious charm,
To keep me still a happy wife,
And shield the house frae harm.
Instead of wealth and growing care,
I ask but health and love:
Instead of warldly wit and leir,
Some wisdom from above.
Our bairns! the comfort o' our heart
Oh! may they long be spared!
We'll try by them to do our part,
And hope a sure reward.
What better tocher can we gi'e
Than just a taste for hame;
What better heirship, when we die,
Than just an honest name?