Her faither says aften fu' plainly to me,
'The wean, woman, 's juist like oor neebors, we see,
An' naething ava to mak siccan a sang
As ye dae aboot her a' the leevy day lang.'
But I say to him, 'Na, she's my ain wee bit tot,
An' has ways o' her ain that nae ithers hae got;'
An' as for himsel', losh, I'm gey far mistaen
If he disna think her just an unco bit wean.
For ye see when she first noticed things an' grew croose,
She wad follow him glegly through a' the hale hoose;
An' at nicht, when he cam' frae his wark, I declare,
Ye'd hae thocht that she ken'd his first step on the stair.
An' then when he half put his heid into sicht,
Cryin' 'Keeky-bo, where's my wee Maggie the nicht?'
The wee thing could scarce keep her seat on my knee,
As he ran up like daft to kiss baith her an' me.
But noo when she's gotten the fit an' can rin,
What a flutter at times she can pit us baith in,
For she toddles a' gates, though her favourite feat
Is to climb up on chairs and look oot on the street;
An' if a big horse or a dog comes in sicht,
She jumps in sic glee that we rin, in oor fricht,
An' grup baith her legs, while her faither declares
That this same trick o' hers 'ill bring on his grey hairs.
Then, the taste that she has puzzles me warst ava,
An' yet her bit mou' never gie's the least thraw,
Though a waught o' saip suds an' a mouthful' o' ink
She took ance unawares when in search o' a drink.
I hae seen her mysel' lyin' cantie an' droll
At a pic-nic o' cinders, drawn frae the ase-hole.
Bless the wean! what a lesson for fat epicures
Wha gang smackin' their lips through this warl' o' oors.
Then, in flooers I maun say that she tak's little pride;
For a big bunch o' grass, growin' by the roadside,
A lang dandelion, or docken fu' braid
Can pit a' your fine hot-house gems in the shade.
I whiles say, 'Dear me, what an' odd kind o' wean,
Sae chock-fu' o' things that we canna explain;'
But her faither hauds out, in his ain joky way,
She's the maist original wean o' her day.
Then at nicht when she rows aboot in her nicht claes,
She maun hae half an hour to get countin' her taes,
Or rinnin' aboot wi' sic bursts o' pure glee,
That her faither looks up half in wonner at me;
But whenever I rise frae my chair to gie chase
She comes to my arms, an' sic laughin' tak's place,
That I'm thankfu' when Sleep comes to weave his mute spell,
An' tak' a' her thochts an' sweet dreams to himsel'.
She's oor tae ee, the wean, an' the licht in oor hame,
Through which, when we look, this life's no like the same,
But glows as if seen through the shadow of God,
Till again we hae Paradise in oor abode;
An' we fill up wi' joy ow'r this wee bud o' oors
That, springlike, has put a' oor ain into flooers,
An' the bliss we hae in her can never depart,
For we lie doon at nicht wi' her lauch in oor heart.