Had I the wyte, had I the wyte, Had I the wyte she bad me; For she was steward in the house, And i was fit-man laddie; And when I wadna' do't again, A silly cow she ca'd me; She straik't my head, and clapt my cheeks And lous'd my breeks and bad me. Could I for shame, could I for shame, Could I for shame deny her; Or in the bed was I to blame, She bad me lye beside her: I pat six inches in her wame, A quarter wadna fly'd her; For ay the mair I ca'd it hame, Her parts they grew the wider. My tartan plaid, when it was dark, Could I refuse to share it; She lifted up her holland-sark, And bad me find the gair o't; Or how could I amang the garse, But gie her hilt and hair o't; She clasp'd her houghs about my a--e, And ay she glowr'd for mair o't.
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