The deil's in that bit bairn o' mine, for every noo and than
He gies me siccan frichts, that whiles for fear I scarce can stan';
What pits sic mischief in his heid 'twad puzzle me to tell,
Unless to gar me start an' rin, that he may lauch himsel'.
Just noo in comin' frae the well, I heard a clash an' rair,
An' here he's wi' his heid richt through the ban's o' his wee chair;
I didna ken richt where I stood until I had him free,
An' kissin' a' his rumpled pow as he sat on my knee.
But 'tweel since ever he could crawl, an' hirstle roun' an' roun',
He aye made for that chair o' his, nod-noddin' wi' his croon;
An' through the ban's he'd pit his heid, then start to craw an' sing,
As if he wanted me to ken he'd dune some michty thing.
He had some notion o' his ain' I pit nae doot in that,
Some queer dim thocht that, though a wean, he wanted to be at;
But what he mean'd by't, than or noo, 'twad tak' the seven wise men
Wha flourished braid langsyne in Greece, to rise and let us ken.
But aye as up the laddie grew, his heid was growin' tae,
An' aye the chair ban's stood the same as ony ban's should dae;
Until at last when he boo'd dae his muckle-thocht-o' trick,
His heid stuck fast, an' there he'd lie, tae spurl an' greet an' kick.
Gude kens what fash I've had since than, an' a' to little en',
For though I free his heid for him, it winna mak' him men';
I wuss when he grows up an' tries his ain han' shift to mak',
He maunna pit his heid through things that winna let it back.
I ken but little o' this life, it's unco ill to learn,
Yet what I hae o't gars me think the mair o' my bit bairn;
For mony a muckle man I see, if I but turn aboot,
Wha has his heid atween the ban's, an' canna get it oot.