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