Up wi' the Widow.
[From a collection of "Ancient Ballads and Songs, by Thomas Lyle," London, 1827.]
Welcome, my Johnnie, beardless an' bonnie,
Ye're my conceit, though I'm courted by mony
Come to the spence, my ain merry ploughman,
Make it your hame, ye'll be baith het an' fu', man;
Baith het an' fu', man, baith het an' fu', man,
Make it your hame, ye'll be baith het an' fu', man.
Gin ye be tentie, ye shall ha'e plenty,
Year after year, I ha'e dotted a renty,
Byres fu' o' horse an' kye, barns fu' o' grain, man,
Bukes fu' o' notes, an' a farm o' your ain, man.
At market or fiair, man, ye may be there, man,
Buying or selling, wi' plenty to ware, man,
Dress'd like a laird, in the bravest an' warmest,
Or a gude beast, you'll ride up wi' the foremost.
Taupie young lassies, keeking in glasses,
Wasting their siller on trinkets an' dresses,
Think wi' yoursel', Johnnie, tak' wha ye may do,
Ye may do waur than draw up wi' the widow,
Up wi' the widow, up wi' the widow,
Ye may do waur than draw up wi' the widow.