BY the delicious warmness of thy mouth,
And rowing eye, which smiling tells the truth,
I guess my lassie, that as well as I,
You’re made for love, and why should ye deny?
But ken ye, lad, gin we confess, o’er soon,
Ye think us cheap, and syne the wooing’s done,
The maiden that o’er quickly tines her pow’r,
Like unripe fruit, will taste but hard and sowr.
But when they hing o’er lang upon the tree,
Their sweetness they may time, and sae may ye:
Red cheek’d you compleatly ripe appear,
And I have thol’d and woo’d a lang haff year.
Then dinna pu’ me gently thus I fa’
Into my Patie’s arms for good and a’:
But stint your wishes to this frank embrace,
And mint nae farther till we’ve got the grace.
O charming armsfu’! hence, ye cares, away,
I’ll kiss my treasure a’ the live lang day:
A’ night I’ll dream my kisses o’er again,
‘Till that day come that ye’ll be a’ my ain.
Sun, gallop down the westlin skies,
Gang soon to bed, and quickly rise;
O lash your steeds, post time away,
And haste about our bridel day:
And if ye’re weary’d, honest light,
Sleep gin ye like a week that night.