I am a young Lass in my prime, my age it is just twenty-one; I think it a very fit time to buckle myself to a man: I've baith bread and kitchen nae scent, I gang i' the fashion su' braw; Yet still I've an unco bit want, that fashes me mair than them a'.
CHORUS. For I'm ripe, an' ready, an' a', ready, an' ripe, an' a'; I wish I may get a bit mau, before that my beauty gae wa'. A' day as I spin wi' my mither, and lilt over mysel' a bit sang, How Lasses an' Lads gang thegither, O fils but it gars me think lang! In bed I am like to gang crazy, I dream, I row an' I gawnt, Where I might be lying su' easy, were't no for this unco bit want. For I'm ripe, &c.
Young Andrew comes whiles in the glomin', an' draws in a stool by my side, But he's ay sae flead for a woman, that aften his face he maun hide: I steer up my temper-string gayly, an' while a bit verse will rant; Young women you ken maun be wyllie, that mak up that unco bit want. For I'm ripe &c.
Am thinkin' sometimes, when he's rising, to mak a bit step to the door, An' raise a wee crack that's entising, perhaps that he ken na afore. An' O if the laddie wad tak me, an' raise a bit canty wee rant; There's naething mair pleasure wad gie me, for that's just my unco bit want. For I'm ripe &c.
