By Violet Jacob
I’m fairly disjaskit, Christina,
The warld an’ its glories are toom;
I’m laid like a stane whaur ye left me,
To greet wi’ my heid i’ the broom.
A’ day has the lav’rock been singin’
Up yont, far awa’ i’ the blue,
I thocht that his sang was sae bonnie,
Bit it disna’ seem bonnie the noo!
A’ day has the cushie been courtin’
His joe i’ the boughs o’ the ash,
But gin Love was wheeped frae the pairish,
It isn’t mysel’ that wad fash!
For losh! what a wark I’ve had wi’ ye!
At mairkit, at kirk, an’ at fair,
I’ve ne’er let anither lad near ye –
An’ what can a lassie need mair?
An’ oh! but I’ve socht ye an’ watched ye,
Whauriver yer fitsteps was set,
Gin ye had but yer neb i’ the gairden
I was aye glowerin’ in at the yett!
Ye’ll mind when ye sat at the windy,
Dressed oot in yer fine Sawbath black,
Richt brawly I kent that ye saw me,
But ye just slippit oot at the back.
Christina, ’twas shamefu’ – aye was it!
Affrontin’ a man like mysel’,
I’m thinkin’ ye’re daft, for what ails ye
Is past comprehension to tell.
Guid stuff’s no sae common, Christina,
And whiles it’s no easy to see;
Ye micht tryst wi’ the Laird or the Provost,
But ye’ll no find the marrows o’ me!