DINNA KISS AFORE FOLK.
[An old Scotch song.]
Behave yoursel’ afore folk,
And dinna be sae rude to me
As kiss me sae afore folk.
It’s no through hatred o’ a kiss
That I sae plainly tell you this;
But ah! I tak’ it sae amiss
To be sae teased afore folk.
Behave yoursel’ afore folk;
When we’re alane, ye may tak’ ane,
But ne’er a ane afore folk.
Ye tell me that my face is fair;
It may be sae,—I dinna care,—
But ne’er again gar ’t blush sae sair
As ye hae dune afore folk.
Ye tell me that my lips are sweet:
Sic tales, I doubt, are a deceit;
At any rate, it’s hardly meet
To pree their sweets afore folk.
But, gin you really do insist
That I should suffer to be kissed,
Gae get a license frae the priest,
And mak’ me yours afore folk;
Behave yourself afore folk,
And when we’re ane, baith flesh and bane,
Ye may tak’ ten afore folk.
