  My fadder said “Nay”—an’ my mudder said “Niver!” When Willie furst telt them we wantit to wed; We mud part—they said, beÀth—part at yance an’ for iver, An’ they deavet me to deeth aboot foats ’at he hed. A sailor was Will, forret, free-tonguet, an’ funny, An’ gi’en till o’ manner o’ teulment was he; Rayder lowce i’ religion, an’ careless o’ money, But dear was my wild, thowtless Willie to me. His life seemed meÀd up of arrivin’s an’ sailin’s— Rough hardship at sea, an’ fair daftness at heÀm. I cry’t ow’r his danger—I pray’t ow’r his failin’s, An’ offen forgev what I cudn’t but bleÀm. An’ many a frind, an’ relation, an’ neighbour Brong hints an’ queer teÀls aboot Will to poor me; But neighbours an’ frinds gat the’r pains for the’r labour, For t’mair they misco’t him t’mair thowte on was he. An’t’ upshot of o’ the’r fine hints an’ advices Was ’at, ya neet, weel happ’t i’ Will’s greet sailor cwoat, We dreÀv, afoor dayleet, to Foster Penrice’s, An’ slip’t ow’r till Annan i’t’ Skinburneese bwoat. An’ theer we wer’ weddit, i’ their way o’ weddin’;— I dudn’t hafe like’t, but they said it wad dee; An’ I d?r-say it may’d—for a lass ’at was bred in Their ways—but it wasn’t like weddin’ to me. An’ when Will brong me back, varra sh?m-feÀcet an’ freetent, Ower t’ sin an’ disgrace on’t my m?dder went wild.— Sair, sair dud my heart sink, but bravely it leeten’t When Will prist me close up beside him, an’ smil’d. My fadder said l?l, no’but whishtit my mudder, An’ pettit an’ blest me wid tears iv his e’e; Till beÀth on us ru’t what hed gi’en him sec bodder, An’ sh?m’t of our darrak steud Willie an’ me. Eigh—for loave, he was kind! an’ he wad hev us weddit, As t’ rest of his barns hed been—menseful an’ reet— He leuk’t at oor Scotch weddin’-writin’ an’ read it, But went up to t’ Priest’s aboot t’ license that neet. An’ he keep’t me at heÀm, though we hed a hoose riddy. He said he mud hev me, while Will follow’t t’ sea. An’ Will! weddin’ meÀd him douce, careful, an’ stiddy, An’ he’s hoddenly been a gud husband to me. He seun hed a ship of his oan, an’ meÀd money, An’ seÀv’t it, what he reckoned harder by far; An’, ola’s weel-natur’t, free-heartit an’ funny, He meÀd his-sel frinds wid whativer com’ n?r. An’ es for my m?dder, ’at thowte me so silly, An’ lang nowte but bad i’ poor Willie wad see, I’s thenkful she leevet to say—“Bless thee son Willie, “Many c?mforts we’ve hed but meÀst c?mfort i’ thee.” |
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