Tib And Her Maister Poem by Robert Anderson

I's tir'd wi' liggin aye my leane;
This day seems fair and clear;
Seek th'auld grey yad, clap on the pad,
She's duin nae wark te year:
Furst, Tib, get me my best lin sark,
My wig, and new--greas'd shoon;
My three--nuik'd hat, and mittens white--
I'll hev a young weyfe suin!
A young weyfe for me, Tib,
A young weyfe for me;
She'll scart my back whene'er it yuks,
Sae married I mun be!

`Wey, maister! you're hawf blin and deef--
`The rain comes pouring down;--
`Your best lin sark wants beath the laps,
`Your three--nuik'd hat the crown;
`The rattens eat your clouted shoon;
`The yad's unshod and leame;
`You're bent wi' yage leyke onie bow,
`Sae sit content at heame.
`A young weyfe for ye, man!
`A young weyfe for ye!
`They'll rank ye wi' the horned nowt
`Until the day ye dee!'

O, Tib, thou aye talks leyke a fuil!
I's faild, but nit sae auld;
A young weyfe keeps yen warm i' bed,
When neets are lang and cauld:
I've brass far mair than I can count,
And sheep, and naigs, and kye;
A house luiks howe widout a weyfe--
My luck I'll e'en gae try.
A young weyfe for me, Tib,
A young weyfe for me;
I yet can lift twee pecks o' wots,
Tho turn'd o' eighty--three.

`Weel, maister, ye maun ha'e your way,
`And sin ye'll wedded be,
`I's lish and young, and stout and strang,
`Sae what think ye o' me?
`I'll keep ye teydey, warm, and clean,
`To wrang ye I wad scworn.'
Tib! gi'es thy hand!--a bargain be't--
We'll of to kurk to--mworn!
A young weyfe for me, Tib,
Tou was meade for me;
We'll kiss and coddle aw the neet,
And aye we'll happy be!