The Book of Scottish Song/A Wife o' my ain

A Wife o' my ain.

[Robert Whitley of Biggar in Lanarkshire.]

Frae Clyde to the banks o' sweet Earn
I've travell'd fu' mony a mile;
But thoughts o' my dearest lass Ailie
The wearisome hours did beguile.
The happy wae night that we parted,
She vow'd she wad constant remain:
My heart-strings a' dirl'd wi' fondness;
I kiss'd and I kiss'd her again.

'Tis not that her cheeks are like roses,
Nor yet for her dark-rowing e'e;
'Tis not for her sweet comely features;
These charms are a' naething to me.
The storms o' this life may soon blast them,
Or sickness may snatch them away,
But virtue, when fix'd in the bosom,
Will flourish and never decay.

Nae langer I'll spend a' my siller:
Nae langer I'll now lie my lane;
Nae langer I'll hunt after lasses;
I'll soon ha'e a wife o' my ain.
For mony a wild foot have I wander'd,
An' mony a night spent in vain,
Wi' drinking, and dancing, and courting:
But I'll soon ha'e a wife o' my ain.

Her mother's aye roaring and flyting:
"I rede ye, tak' tent o' that chiel;
He'll no be that canny to leeve wi';
He'll ne'er be like douce Geordie Steele.
He's courtit far ower mony lasses;
To slight them he thinks it gude fun;
He'll mak' but a sober half-marrow;
Ye'd best rue before ye be bun'."

Though Geordie be laird o' a housie,
And brags o' his kye and his pelf,
And warld's gear I be richt scant o';
A fig for't as lang's I've my health;
If ance I were kippled wi' Ailie,
She'll seldom ha'e cause to complain;
We'll jog on through life aye right cannie,
When I get a wife o' my ain.

But if that my Ailie prove faithless,
And marry before I return,
I'll ne'er, like a coof, greet about her,
Nor yet for ae minute I'll mourn.
Awa' straight to some other beauty
Without loss o' time I will hie,
And shaw to the lasses I'm careless,
Unless they're as willing as I.

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