To the Tune of, Widow are ye wawkin?
O Wha’s that at my chamber-door?
“Fair widow are ye wawking?”
Auld carle, your suite give o’er,
Your love lyes a’ in tawking.
Gi’e me the lad that’s young and tight,
Sweet like an April meadow;
‘Tis sic as he can bless the sight,
And bosom of a widow.
“O widow, wilt thou let me in,
“I’m pawky, wise and thrifty,
“And come of a right gentle kin;
“I’m little mair than fifty.”
Daft carle dit your mouth,
What signifies how pawky,
Or gentle born ye be, – bot youth,
In love you’re but a gawky.
“Then, widow, let these guineas speak,
“That powerfully plead clinkan,
“And if they fail my mouth I’ll steek,
“And nae mair love will think on.”
These court indeed, I maun confess,
I think they make you young, sir,
And ten times better can express
Affection, than your tongue, sir.