O Donald! ye are just the man
Who, when he's got a wife,
Begins to fratch--nae notice ta'en--
They're strangers a' their life.

The fan may drop--she takes it up,
The husband keeps his chair;
She hands the kettle--gives his cup--
Without e'en--''Thank ye, dear.''

Now, truly, these slights are but toys;
But frae neglects like these,
The wife may soon a slattern grow,
And strive nae mair to please.

For wooers ay do all they can
To trifle wi' the mind;
They hold the blaze of beauty up,
And keep the poor things blind.

But wedlock tears away the veil,
The goddess is nae mair;
He thinks his wife a silly thing,
She thinks her man a bear.

Let then the lover be the friend--
The loving friend for life;
Think but thysel the happiest spouse,
She'll be the happiest wife.