Oor Sis is a mitherly sort o' a bairn,
An unco gleg thing, an' sae easy to learn,
That let her see ance hoo a thing should be dune,
An' ye've nae trouble wi' her or fash afterhin';
An' she does a' wi' siccan a look on her broo—
Sae thochtfu' an' womanlike aye to oor view—
That we wunner an' try tae fin' oot, but in vain,
Hoo sic auld-fashion'd thochts got a haud o' oor wean.
Then she speirs sic wise questions that frae her seem droll,
As she cuts oot some shapin's for goons to her doll,
An' a' aboot weans that she wants us to tell,
As if she was some wrinkled granny hersel',
That I look on her whiles wi' a sort o' a fear,
As if something unseen or uncanny was near,
Tittlin' to her in whispers, as laigh as can be,
A' thae queer thochts o' hers that in turn puzzle me.
She's the first that fin's oot a' the holes in the breeks
O' her brithers, dear rogues, wha are sair on their steeks;
Then she'll thraw her bit mou', an' she'll peenge, an' she'll wheedle,
Till I get oot my thummle, a pirn, an' a needle;
An' the rascals, to keep things in cosie hame rule,
Maun e'en lay themsel's ow'r her wee creepie stool,
While I guide her wee han' wi' the thread through an' through,
An' losh, but it's leesome hoo weel she can shoo.
Then, when washin' day comes for oor ain dirty duds,
What a wark she has after't amang the saip suds!
But first I maun row up her wee frock ahin',
An' get some auld cloot an' draw't through 'neath her chin;
Then she scoors her bit duds, wrings them oot in a fyke,
An' spreads them to dry on the en' o' the dyke,
Rinnin' oot noo an' then as if fley'd for the rain—
What a wife she will mak' to somebody, oor wean!
An' just but last night I made saps to wee Jean—
She's oor youngest, new spean'd, an' she's waukrife at e'en—
What does Sis dae but gang an' mak' some o' her ain,
An' fleech wi' her big billy, Jock, to be wean;
An' Jock—he's no miss'd for a stammuck—sat doon,
His han's at his back, an' mooth wide for the spoon,
An' she fed him fu' weel, as he sat on his doup,
Scrapin' mooth, cheek, an' chin atween every sowp.
She has just ae wee faut, but it's ane we can thole—
She wad 'maist gie ye ocht for an auld parasol;
An' I min' when oor neebor next door gi'ed her ane
She had faun' in the press, a' moth-eaten an' dune,
She was sae ta'en up wi't that, let what weather fa',
She aye took it oot as a biel' frae them a',
Till at last, for fair shame's sake, I burn'd it, an sair
Did she greet when she kenn'd she wad get it nae mair.
But she's siccan a helpfu' bit thing, an' sae kin',
That what fau'ts she has canna stop lang on the min';
But whether she rocks wi' a prim, modest face,
The cradle, or looks in her wee tittie's face,
Or washes the laigh single step at oor door,
Or looks oot for dad when his day's wark is o'er,
Or toddles aboot on some wark o' her ain,
She's aye oor wee Sis—my ain mitherly wean.