Meg
At sixteen years I was blue ans sad.
then father said I should find a lad.
So I set out to become a wife,
An` found the real love of my life.
His name it was Chris, and the last was MacGill.
I met him one night pickin` flowers on the hill.
He had lots of charm an` a certain kind o` touch,
An a certain kind of eagerness that pleased me very much.
so there `neath the moon where romance often springs,
I gave him my heart--an` a few other things.
I don`t know how long that I stayed up on the hill,
But the moon had disappeared, and so had Christopher MacGill.
So I went home an` I thought I`d die,
Till Father said, make another try.
So out I went to become a wife,
An` found the real love of my lfe.
He came from the lowlands, the lowlands said he.
I saw him an` knew he was perfect for me.
Jus` one thing that puzzled me an` it always will,
Was he told me he had heard about me from his friend MacGill.
We quick fell in love an` went down by the creek.
The next day he said he`d be back in a week,
An` I thought he would, for now how was I to know
That of all the lowland laddies, there was never one as low!
I told my father the awful truth.
He said, What difference? Ye`ve got your youth.
So out I went mad to be a wife,
An` found the real love of my life.
Oh, he was a poet, a rhymer was he.
He read me some verse he had written for me.
He said they would move me, these poems from his pen,
An` how right he was, because they moved me right into the glen.
We stayed till the dawn came an` lighted the sky,
Then I shook his hand an` I bid him good-bye.
I never went back, for what I had heard was true:
That a poet only writes about the things he cannot do.
My pa said, Look out for men who think.
Ye`ll be more certain with men who drink.
So out I went to become a wife,
An` found the real love of my life.
Oh, he was a solier, a fine Highland son.
He told me about all the battle he`d won.
He wasted his time tellin` me about his might,
For one look at him decided me to not put up a fight.
We skirmished for hours that night in the glen,
an` I found the sword has more might than the pen,
But when I was drowsin` I snored to my dismay,
An` he thought it was a bugle an` got up an` marched away.
Now Pa said, Daughter, there must be one,
Someone who`s true, or too old to run.
So I`m still lookin` to be a wife,
An` find the real love of my life.
