O meikle thinks my Luve
o' my beauty,
And meikle thinks my Luve o' my kin;
But little thinks my Luve, I ken brawlie,
My tocher's the jewel has charms for him.
It's a' for the apple he'll nourish the tree;
It's a' for the hiney he'll cherish the bee;
My laddie's sae eikle in love with the siller,
He canna hae luve to spare for me.
Your proffer o' luve's an airle-penny,
My tocher's the bargain he would buy;
But an ye be crafty, I am cunnin,
Sae ye wi' anither your fourtune maun try.
Ye're like to the tinner o' yon rotten wood,
Ye're like to the bark o' yon rotten tree,
Ye'll slip frae me like a knotless thread,
And ye'll crack your credit wi' mae nor me.