JENNY GRAHAME

Alas! my son, you little know, The sorrows which from wedlock flow: Farewell, sweet hours of mirth and ease, When you have gotten a wife to please. Sae bide ye yet, and bide ye yet, Ye little ken what’s to betide ye yet, The half o’ that will gane you yet If a wayward wife obtain you yet. Your hopes are high, your wisdom small, Woe has not had you in its thrall; The black cow on your foot ne’er trod, Which makes you sing along the road. When I, like you, was young and free, I valued not the proudest she; Like you my boast was bold and vain, That men alone were born to reign. Great Hercules and Sampson too Were stronger far than I or you, Yet they were baffled by their dears, And felt the distaff and the shears. Stout gates of brass, and well-built walls, Are proof ’gainst swords and cannon-balls; But nought is found, by sea or land, That can a wayward wife withstand.