The Book of Scottish Song/Ta Offish

Ta Offish.

[Alex. Fisher.—Air, "Johnny Cape."]

Her nainsel' come frae ta hielan' hill,
To ponny town o' Glascow till,
But o' Glasgow she's koten her pelly fill,
She'll no forget tis twa tree mornin'.

She'll met Shony Grant her cosin's son,
An' Tuncan, an' Toukal, an' Tonal Cunn,
An' twa three more—an' she had sic fun,
But she'll turn't oot a saut saut mornin'.

Sae Shony Grant, a shill she'll ha'e
O' ta fera cootest usquapae,
An' she'll pochtet a shill, aye an' twa three mae,
An' she'll trank till ta fera neist mornin'.

She'll sat, an' she'll trank, an' she'll roar, an' she'll sang,
An' aye for ta shill ta pell she'll rang,
An' she'll maet sic a tin fat a man she'll prang,
An' she'll say't—"Co home 'tis mornin'."

Ta man she'll had on ta great pig coat,
An' in her han' a rung she'll cot,
An' a purnin' cruzie, an' she'll say't you sot
She'll maun go to ta Offish tis mornin'.

She'll say't to ta man—"De an Diaoul shin duitse?"
An' ta man she'll say't—"Pe quiet as ta mouse,
Or nelse o'er her nottle she'll come fu' crouse,
An' she'll put ta Offish in you in ta mornin."

Ta man she'll dunt on ta stane her stick,
An' t'an she'll pe cheuk her rick-tick-tick,
An' t'an she'll pe catchet her by ta neck,
An' trawn her to ta Offish in ta mornin'.

Ta mornin' come she'll be procht before
Ta gentleman's praw, an' her pones all sore,
An' ta shentleman's say't, "You tog, what for
You'll maet sic a tin in tis mornin'."

She'll teukit aff her ponnet and she'll maet her a poo,
An' she'll say't, "Please her Grace she cot her sel' foo,
But shust let her co and she'll never to
Ta like no more in ta mornin'.

But fan she'll ha'et to ta shentleman's praw
Ta Sheordie firae out o' her sporan traw,
An' she'll roart out loot—"De an diaoul a ha'e gra?
Oh hone O ri 'tis mornin'!"

O t'an she'll pe sait ta shentlemans, "she'll no unterstoot
What fere she'll pe here like ta lallan prute,
But she'll maet her cause either pad or coot,
For she'll teuk you to ta law this mornin'."

Ta shentleman's say't "respect ta coort,
Or nelse my koot lat you'll suffer for 't,
Shust taur to spokst another wort,
An' she'll send her to ta Fischal in ta mornin'.

Oich! she didna knew what to do afa,
For she nefer found herself so sma',
An' klat she was right to kot awa',
Frae oot o' ta offish in ta mornin'.

Oh! tat she war to ta Hielans pack,
Whar ne'er ta pailie's tare to crack,
An' whare she wad gotten ta sorro' a plack,
Frae n'oot o' her sporan in ta mornin'.

An tat there was there her cosin's son,
An' Tuncan, an' Tookal, and Tonal Cunn,
An' twa tree more, she wad haet sic fun,
And no be plaiget wi' pailies in ta mornin'.

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