MY mither’s ay glowran o’er me,
Tho’ she did the same before me;
I canna get leave
To look to my loove,
Or else she’ll be like to devour me.
Right fain wad I take ye’r offer,
Sweet Sir, but I’ll tine my tocher;
Then, Sandy, ye’ll free,
And wyte ye’r poor Kate,
When e’er ye keek in your toom coffer.
For tho’ my father has plenty
Of siller and plenishing dainty,
Yet he’s unco sweer
To twin wi’ his gear;
And sae we had need to be tenty.
Tutor my parents wi’ caution,
Be wylie in ilka motion;
Brag well o’ ye’r land,
And there’s my leal hand,
Win them, I’ll be at your devotion.