What ails you, Pate.
[Tune, "For a' that an' a' that."—Written by Alex. Douglas, a weaver in Pathhead, Fifeshire, who published a volume of poems in 1806.]
What ails you now, my daintie Pate,
Ye winna wed an' a' that?
Say, are ye fley'd, or are ye blate,
To tell your love an' a' that?
To kiss an' clap, an' a' that?
O fy for shame, an" a' that,
To spend your life without a wife;
'Tis no the gate ava that.
Ere lang you will grow auld and frail,
Your haffets white an' a' that;
An' whare's the Meg, the Kate, or Nell,
Will ha'e you syne wi. a' that?
Runkled brow an' a' that;
Wizzen'd fece an' a' that;
Wi' beard sae grey, there's nane will ha'e
A kiss frae you, an' a' that.
O stand na up wi' where an' how,
Wi' ifs an' buts an' a' that,
Wi' feckless scruples not a few:
Pu' up your heart an' a' that.
Crousely crack an' a' that;
Come try your luck an' a' that:
The hiney-moon will ne'er gang done,
If guidit weel an' a' that.
There's monie lass baith douce an' fair,
Fu' sonsy, fier, an' a' that,
Wad suit you to a veiry hair,
Sae clever they're an' a' that;
Handsome, young, an' a' that,
Sae complaisant an' a' that;
Sae sweet an' braw, and gude an' a';
What ails the chield at a' that
Come, look about, an' wale a wife,
Like honest fouk an' a' that;
An' lead a cheerfu' virtuous life;
Ha'e plenty, peace, an' a' that;
A thrifty wife an' a' that,
An' bonnie bairns an' a' that,
Syne in your ha' shall pleasures a'
Smile ilka day an' a' that.