Page:Beauties of Glasgow (2).pdf/8

 And kisses, laying a’ the wite

On you, if she keep ony skaith.

Haith ye're ill-bred, she’ll smiling say,

ye'll worry me, ye greedy rook;

Syne frae your arms she'll rin away,

and hide hersel in some dark nook.

Her laugh will lead you to the place

where lies the happiness ye want,

And plainly tells you to your face,

nineteen naysays are half a grant.

Now to her heaving bosom cling,

and sweetly toolie for a kiss

Frae her fair finger whop a ring,

as token of a future bliss.

These benisons, I'm very sure,

are of the gods indulgent grant;

Then surly Charles, whish forbear,

to plague us with your whinning cant.