1 My mither's ay glowran o'er me,
2 Tho she did the same before me,
3 I canna get leave
4 To look to my loove,
5 Or else she'll be like to devour me.
6 Right fain wad I take ye'r offer,
7 Sweet Sir, but I'll tine my tocher,
8 Then, Sandy, ye'll fret,
9 And wyt ye'r poor Kate,
10 When e'er ye keek in your toom coffer.
11 For tho my father has plenty
12 Of siller and plenishing dainty,
13 Yet he's unco sweer
14 To twin wi' his gear,
15 And sae we had need to be tenty.
16 Tutor my parents wi' caution,
17 Be wylie in ilka motion,
18 Brag well o' ye'r land,
19 And there's my leal hand,
20 Win them, I'll be at your devotion.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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