Pit his back against a chair,
Let us see if he can gang,
But be ready wi' your han'
If he sways or ocht gaes wrang;
Mammy wadna like to see
Ony ill come to her wean;
There noo, leave him to himsel',
Mammy's bairnie's a' his lane.
What a thrawin' o' his mou',
What a rowin' o' his een,
Then a steady look at me,
An' the space that lies between;
Noo, ae fittie's oot a bit,
Look at him, he's unco fain,
Straicht himsel' up like a man,
Mammy's bairnie's a' his lane.
There, he's left the chair at last,
Lauchin' in his merry glee—
Haudin' oot a wee, plump han',
As if to say, 'Tak' haud o' me.'
Juist anither step, an' then—
Gudesake, what a thraw he's ta'en!
There, he's fairly ow'r at last—
Coupit when he's left his lane.
Did he hurt his curly heid?
Let his mammy clap the place,
Pay the stule, an' kiss his croon
Till the tears are aff his face.
There noo; lean him to the chair—
Let us try the bairn again;
Half-a-dozen fa's are nocht,
If he learns to gang his lane.
Steady this time wi' his feet—
Dinna keep his legs sae wide.
See, I hae my han' to kep
If he sways to ony side.
Mercy! what a solemn face
Lookin' up to meet my ain;
There, he's in my lap at last;
Here's a bairn can gang his lane.
Mither life has unco wark,
Settin' up her weans to gang;
Some pit oot ae fit, then stop,
Ithers step oot an' fa' wrang;
Very few can keep their feet
As they stot ow'r clod or stane;
Angels greet abune to see
Hoo we fa' when left oor lane.