Page:The Book of Scottish Song.djvu/341

Rh I've baith bread and kitchen nae scanty,

An' gowns i' the fashion fu' braw:

But aye there's an unco bit wantie,

That fashes me mair than them a'.

Ripe an' ready an' a'.

Ripe an' ready an' a',

I wish I may get a bit man

Afore my beauty gae wa'.

A' day as I spin' wi' my mither,

An' lilt owre mysel' a bit sang,

How lasses an' lads gae thegither,

O, sirs, but it gars me think lang;

A' night syne I'm like to gang crazy,

I dream, an' I row, an' I gaunt,

Whare I might be lying fu' easy,

An't warna that unco bit want.

Ripe and ready, &c.

Young Andro' comes whyles at the gloamin',

An' draws in a stool by my side;

But aye he's sae fear't for a woman,

That aften his face he maun hide.

I steave up my temper-string gayly,

An' whyles a bit verse I do chaunt;

For lasses, ye ken, maun be wylie,

To mak' up their unco bit want.

Ripe and ready, &c.

I'm thinkin', some night when he's risin',

I'll mak' a bit step to the door,

An' raise a bit crack that's enticin',

To heighten his courage a bore—

For O gin the laddie wad kipple,

Sae merrily as we will rant;

The punch out o' jugs we will tipple,

The night I get free o' my want.

Ripe an' ready an' a'.

Ready an' ripe an' a',

I'll mak' a guid wife to the laddie

Gin ever he tak' me ava'.

Maggie, I'm doubtfu' ye're jokin',

I wish ye may like me sae weel;

O' luve though I ne'er yet ha'e spoken,

It fashes me sair, I watweel;

Yer cheeks are sae roun' an' sae rosey—

Yer e'en ha'e sae witchin' a cant—

Yer breath is as sweet as a posey,

An' fain wad I mak' up yer want.

Kiss an' daut ye an' a',

Daut an' kiss ye an' a';

Young Andro' wad think himsel' happy

To kiss an' daut ye an' a'.

The morn I sall speak to my father,

To big us an inset an' spence;

Some plenishin' syne we will gather,

An' get a' thing manag't wi' mense;

I'll get a wheen sarks frae my mither:

Mae kail i' the yard I will plant;

An' then, when we're buckl't thegither,

I'll mak' up yer unco bit want.

Kiss an' daut, &c.

At e'en, when wi' toilin' I'm weary,

An' beasts i' the stable an' byre,

I'll get a bit crack wi' my dearie,

An' dry my pleugh hose by the fire.

E'en lairds, wha' in coaches are carried,

A bonnier bride canna vaunt—

An' Maggie, lass, when we are married,

I'll mak' up your unco bit want.

Kiss an' daut, &c.

Though some tak' offence at our freedom,

An' raise up a quarrelsome din,

To gar us believe, gin we heed them,

That tellin' the truth is a sin,

Wi' lang chaftit modest pretences,

They fain wad appear to be saunts;

Yet few, wha's endow'd wi' their senses,

But wishes supply for their wants.

Kissin' an' dautin' an' a',

Dautin' an' kissin' an' a',

There's naething been langer in fashion.

Than kissin' an' dautin' an' a'.

[ is only a fragment of an old song: the rest is supposed to be lost. Richard Galt communicated it to Johnson's Museum, where it was set to music by Stephen Clarke.]

, wi' noisy whistle,

Bids the housewife rise in haste:

Colin Clout begins to hirsle,

Slawly frae his sleepless nest,