THE GUDEWIFE

My gudewife — she that is tae be —

O she sall seeme sang-sweete tae me

As her ain croon tuned wi’ the chiel's

Or spinnin’ - wheel's.

An’ faire she'll be, an’ saft, an’ light,

An’ muslin-bright

As her spick apron, jimpy laced

The-round her waiste.—

Yet aye as rosy sall she bloome

Intil the roome

( The where alike baith bake an’ dine )

As a full-fine

Ripe rose, lang rinset wi’ the raine,

Sun-kist againe,—

Sall seate me at her table-spread,

White as her bread.—

Where I, sae kissen her for grace,

Sall see her face

Smudged, yet aye sweeter, for the bit

O’ floure on it,

Whiles, witless, she sall sip wi’ me

Luve's tapmaist-bubblin’ ecstasy.