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Rh

! my ſon, you little know

The ſorrows that from wedlock flow;

Farewel to every day of eaſe,

When you have got a wife to pleaſe.

Sae bide you yet, and bide you yet,

Ye little ken what’s to betide you yet;

The half of that will gain ye yet,

If a wayward wife obtain ye yet.

You’re experience is but ſmall,

As yet you’ve met with little thrall:

The black cow on your feet ne’er trode,

Which gars you ſing along the road.

Sae bide you yet. &c.

Sometimes the rock, ſometimes the reel,

Or ſome piece of the ſpinning-wheel,

She will drive at you with good-will,

And then ſhe’ll ſend you to the de’il

When I, like you, was young and free,

I valu’d not the proudeſt ſhe;

Like you I vainly boaſted then,

That men alone were born to reign.

Great Hercules and Sampſon too,

Were ſtronger men than I or you,

Yet they were baffled by their dears,

And felt the diſtuff and the ſheers.