ADAM

Ye’re richt weel buskit, yer poke is fu’, Ye ride i’ yer ain machine; ’Twould tak a fule to hae words wi’ you An’ no ken the gowk he’s been. At rowp or preachin’ the best ye’ll hae, This warld or the neist ane’s gear, The breist[5] o’ the laft on a Sawbath day, Or a seat by the auctioneer. Ye’re no jist auld an’ ye arena young, But it doesna affec’ the case, For I’m aye that fear’d o’ a wumman’s tongue That I’m like to forget her face. An’ fowk says “Donal’, ye’re forty past, I doot she’ll be fifty-three, But ye maun settle yersel’ at last That hasna a spare bawbee. Oh, youth’s a ploy, but it winna bide And a body’s gettin’ on— What ails ye, man, at a thrifty bride Wi’ a dandy bit hoose like yon?” Them’s wise-like bodies I hae to thank And mebbe they’re no far wrang; But whiles ye’ll step frae a creakin’ plank An’ doon i’ the glaur[6] ye’ll gang! It’s warm, thae nichts, i’ the auld King’s Heid; What better can ye desire Than a lass to bring ye the dram ye need An’ yer billies aroond the fire? An’ wha is’t redes me to tak’ a wife? A puckle o’ single men! No ane, I’m thinkin’, wad risk his life Wi’ a jaud that he disna ken! I’ll wish ye luck an’ a braw guidman, And weel may ye baith agree, But I’m no seekin’ ye, Maggie-Ann, And I doot that he’ll no be me!