Had I the Wyte She Bade Me

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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Copyright © 2001, Jack Campin