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When I speak of matters they grumble,
Nor are condescending and free,

But at my proposals ay stumble,

I wonder what ails them at me.

I've try'd them baith highland and lowland,
Where I a good bargain cud see,

But nane o' them fand. I wad fall in,
Or say they wad buckle wi' me.

With jooks an' wi' scraps I've address'd them,
Been with them baith modest and free,
But whatever way I caress'd them,
There's something still ails them at me.

O, if I kend how but to gain them,
How fond of the knack wad I be!
Or what an address could obtain them,
It should be twice welcome to me.
If kissing an' clapping wad please them,
That trade I should drive till I die;
But, however I study to ease them,
They've still an exception at me.

There's wratacks, an' cripples, an' cranshaks,

An' a' the wandoghts that I ken,

No sooner they speak to the wenches,

But they are ta'en far enough ben;

But when I speak to them that's stately,
I find them ay ta'en with the gee,
An' get the denial right flatly;

What, think ye, can ail them at me?

I have yet but ae offer to make them,
If they wad but hearken to me,
And that is, I'm willing to tak them,
If they their consent wad but gee;
Let her that's content write a billet,
An' get it transmitted to me,
I hereby engage to fulfil it,

Tho' cripple, tho' blind she sud be.


Dear batchelour, I've read your billet,
Your strait an' your hardships I see,
An' tell you it shall be fulfilled,
Tho' it were by none other but me.
These forty years I've been neglected,
An' nene has had pity on me;
Such offers should not be rejected,
Whoever the offerer be.

For beauty I lay no claim to it,
Or, may be, I had been away;
Tho' tocher or kindred could do it,
I have no pretensions to they:
The most I can say,-I'm a woman,
An' that I a wife want to be;
An' I'll tak exception at no man,
That's willing to tak nane at me.

And now I think I may be cocky,
Since fortune has smurtl'd on me,
I'm Jenny, an' ye shall be Jockie,
'Tis right we together sud be;
For nane of us cud find a marrow,
So sadly forfairn were we ;

Fouk sud no at any thing tarrow,
Whose chance looked naething to be.

On Tuesday speer for Jeany Gradden,
When I i' my pens ween to be,
Just at the sign of the Old Maiden,
Where ye shall be sure to meet me :
Bring with you the priest for the wedding,
That a' things just ended may be,

An' we'll close the whole with the bedding;
An' wha'll be sae merry as we?

A cripple I'm not, ye forsta me,
Tho' lame of a hand that I be;
Nor blind is there reason to ca' me,
Altho' I see but with ae eye:

But I'm just the chap that you wanted,
So tightly our state doth agree;

For nane wad hae you, ye have granted,
As few I confess wad hae me.


There was an auld wife an' a wee pickle tow,
An' she wad gae try the spinning o't,

She louted her down, an' her rock took a low,
And that was a bad beginning o't:

She sat an' she grat, an' she flet and she flang,
An' she threw an' she blew, an' she wrigl'd an' wrang,
An' she choked, an' boaked, an' cry'd like to mang,
Alas! for the dreary spinning o't.

I've wanted a sark for these eight years an' ten,

An' this was to be the beginning o't,

But I vow I shall want it for as lang again,
Or ever I try the spinning o't;

For never since ever they ca'd me as they ca' me,
Did sic a mishap an misanter befa' me,

But ye shall hae leave baith to hang me an' draw me,
The neist time I try the spinning o't.

I hae keeped my house for these three score o' years, An' ay I kept free o' the spinning o't,

But how I was sarked foul fa' them that


For it minds me upo' the beginning o't.
But our women are now a days grown sae bra',
That ilka an maun hae a sark an' some hae twa,
The warlds were better when ne'er an awa'
Had a rag but ane at the beginning o't.

Foul fa her that ever advis'd me to spin,
That had been so lang a beginning o't,

I might well have ended as I did begin,
Nor have got sick a skair with the spinning o't.

But they'll say, she's a wyse wife that kens her ain weerd,

I thought on a day, it should never be speer'd, How loot ye the low take your rock be the beard, When ye yeed to try the spinning o't?

The spinning, the spinning it gars my heart sob,
When I think upo' the beginning o't,

I thought ere I died to have anes made a web,
But still I had weers o' the spinning o't.

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