26th May 2011
War he a reed, she'd rax tae be his bow
The reeshlin, randy strae, she'd stap the manger
War he a stag, she'd be the hummel doe
An wi him, thole the brunt o ony danger
A Springtime snawdrop, derkened b' an aik
She's spukken fur langsyne-yet incomplete
His sun's her pleisur, mindin on his make
Is pure delicht, her trimmlin sap replete
Be't earthly or Divine, love's freely gien
As weel withhaud yon boundin Heilan burn
Or ban the gowd, that croons the simmer breem
Play gyte Canute, an stem the ocean's turn
Their byewyes niver jine-as nicht wi day
Her baurdy, langin, ee can anely look
She kens the futterat rives the striddled prey
Yet fain wid lay her doon, an lute it sook.
His body's fact — her passion's fancy-fed
Ay Tantalus — ye're North, an she is Sooth
His love; his lust, she canna bid nor bed
Twa certainties, within ain Hellish truth.
There's a quine on the brae in a blue, blue, goun
She lifts her skirts, an she shaks them wide
A flicherty May, wi her braw perfume
Her ribbons green, an her hair untied
She's niver been true, tho aften wed
A swick, a randy, a bawdy jaad
Wi her lips o dew, on a dykeside bed
She'll nae wait lang fur a lusty lad
An fit d'ye ca this Jezebel?
Fegs, fit else, but a Scots bluebell!