Auld Peter MacGowan cam down the craft,
An' rubbit his han's an' fidged an' laugh't;
O little thought he o' his wrinkled chaft,
When he wanted me to lo'e;
He patted my brow an' smooth'd my chin,
He praised my e'en an' sleek white skin,
Syne fain wad kiss; but the laugh within
Came rattlin' out, I trew.
O sirs, but he was a canty carle,
Wi' rings o' gowd, an' a brooch o' pearl,
An' aye he spoke o' his frien' the Earl,
And thought he would conquer lo'e.
He boasted o' gear an' acres wide,
O' his bawsand youd that I should ride
When I was made his bonny wee bride,
Returning lo'e for lo'e;
That I a lady to kirk should gang,
Ha'e writ my virtues in a sang;
But I snapp'd my thumb, and said, "gae hang,
Gin that's the best ye can do."
O sirs, but he was a silly auld man,
Nae mair he spak' o' his gear an' lan';
An' through the town like lightning ran,
The tale o' auld Peter's lo'e.
An' sae the auld carle spiel'd up the craft,
And raved and stamp'd like ane gane daft,
Till tears trickled owre his burning chaft,
Sin' he couldna win my lo'e.
"Far better be single," the folk a' said,
"Than a warming pan in an auld man's bed;"
He will be cunning wha gars me wed,
Wi' ane that I never can lo'e;
Na, na! he maun be a fine young lad,
A canty lad, an' a dainty lad;
Oh, he maun be a spirited lad,
Wha thinks to win my lo'e.