I hae thought an' thought, but darena tell, I've studied them wi' a' my skill, I've lo'd them better than mysell, I've tried again to like them ill. Wha sairest strives, will sairest rue, To comprehend what nae man can; When he has done what man can do, He'll end at last where he began. O the women fo'k, etc.
That they hae gentle forms an' meet, A man wi' half a look may see; An gracefu' airs, an' faces sweet, An' waving curls aboon the bree; An' smiles as soft as the young rosebud, And een sae pawky, bright, an' rare, Wad lure the laverock frae the cludd,— But, laddie, seek to ken nae mair! O the women fo'k, etc.
Even but this night nae farther gane, The date is neither lost nor lang, I tak ye witness ilka ane, How fell they fought, and fairly dang. Their point they've carried right or wrang, Without a reason, rhyme, or law, An' forced a man to sing a sang, That ne'er could sing a verse ava.
O the women fo'k! O the women fo'k! But they hae been the wreck o' me; O weary fa' the women fo'k, For they winna let a body be!
JAMES HOGG.
OF A CERTAINE MAN.
There was (not certaine when) a certaine preacher, That never learned, and yet became a teacher, Who having read in Latine thus a text Of erat quidam homo, much perplext, He seemed the same with studie great to scan, In English thus, There was a certaine man. But now (quoth he), good people, note you this, He saith there was, he doth not say there is; For in these daies of ours it is most plaine Of promise, oath, word, deed, no man's certaine; Yet by my text you see it comes to passe That surely once a certaine man there was: But yet, I think, in all your Bible no man Can finde this text, There was a certaine woman.
WOMEN'S CHORUS.
They're always abusing the women, As a terrible plague to men: They say we're the root of all evil, And repeat it again and again; Of war, and quarrels, and bloodshed, All mischief, be what it may! And pray, then, why do you marry us, If we're all the plagues you say? And why do you take such care of us, And keep us so safe at home, And are never easy a moment If ever we chance to roam? When you ought to be thanking heaven That your Plague is out of the way, You all keep fussing and fretting— "Where is my Plague to-day?" If a Plague peeps out of the window, Up go the eyes of men; If she hides, then they all keep staring Until she looks out again.