The Book of Scottish Song/Wee Johnnie

Wee Johnnie.

Wee Johnnie the hynd o' Rigghead,
What think ye, he wad ha'e a wifie
To manage his meal and his bread,
For his siller was nae very rifie.

A laird i' the neist borough town,
Had doughters and siller a plenty,
Thinks he, gif the nest be na flown,
My chance it'll surely be dainty.

He puts on his braw plaiding trews,
And he scrapes aff his beard wi' a whittle;
And he puts on the best o' his blues,
And he rubs up his bonnet sae muckle.

He tak's the wide teeth'd stable kame,
And he gi'es his rough head a bit clautie,
He maist tore the hide frae the bane,
For O it was wond'rous tautie.

His headpiece put on aboon a',
He glowrs in a cogfu' o' water—
Says he, "O I'm bonnie and braw,
And I'm sure o' the lass and her tocher."

A staff in his han' fadam lang,
An' nickit, right sair it wad bruise ye;
He lilted awa' and he sang,
"Now I'm sure that she canna refuse me."

Arrived at the gentleman's door—
He ken'd na the gaits o' the gentry,
He lean'd a' his weight till't, and there
He fell wi' a blade i' the entry.

Miss Jean, for to haud up the joke,
She oxter'd him ben to her cham'er,
An' O! how he rifted an' spake,
An' he said that she shined like the am'er.

An' now, lass, my errand to you
Is to mak' ye a sort o' haff marrow
To wait on my housie, my dow,
While I'm at the pleugh an' the harrow.

I've already twa three-fitted stools,
A fit-gang, a bed, an' an am'ry,
A bink for our bickers an' bowls,
An' I break them right aft when I'm angry.

I've likewise twa gude horn spoons,
A flesh fork, a pot and a ladle,
A girdle for toasting our scones,
Baith poker an' tangs, an' a paddle.

Ye's get parritch an milk in the morning,
An' butter an' cheese to your dinner,
The same again' night for your corning;
An' ye'll swall just like auld lucky Ginner.

For I've thretty pun Scots ilka year—
Twa pecks o' gude meal an' a saxpence
Comes in ilka Saturday clear,
Sent me down frae auld Andrew Dickson's.

I've likewise a dainty milk cow—
An' thae things will aye haud us breathing:
Twa pigs an' a dainty brood sow,
An' they a' get their grazing for naething.

Sae tell me whan ye're comin' hame,
An' dinna appear in a swither,
For gin ye winna tak' me, my dame,
Troth I'm just gaun awa' to anither.

Dear Johnnie, quo' she, with a smile,
It's a' very fair that ye proffer—
But wi' kye and wi' pigs for to toil—
I canna accept o' your offer.

Her father this while at the door—
Lap in wi' an' angry complexion,
An' O! how he curst an' he swore
He wad beat him, an' bruise him, an' vex him.

Poor Johnnie maist coupit the creels;
The door it stood open before him;
He fled—while the grews at his heels,
An' the spaniels were like to devour him.

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