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Poem by Joanna Baillie


Hooly and Fairly


Oh, neighbours! what had I ado for to marry,
My wife she drinks possets and wine o' Canary,
And ca's me a niggardly, thraw-gabbit early,
O gin my wife wad drink hooly and fairly!
⁠                Hooly and fairly, &c.

She feasts wi' her kimmers on dainties enew,
Aye bowing and smirking and dighting her mou',
While I sit aside and am helpet but sparely,
O gin my wife wad feast hooly and fairly!
⁠                Hooly and fairly, &c.

To fairs and to bridals and preachings and a',
She gangs sae light-hearted and busket sae braw,
It's ribbons and mantuas that gars me gae barely,
O gin my wife would spend hooly and fairly!
                ⁠Hooly and fairly, &c.

In the kirk sic commotion last sabbath she made,
Wi' babs o' red roses and briest-knots o'erlaid,
The dominie sticket his psalm very nearly,
O gin my wife wad dress hooly and fairly!
⁠                Hooly and fairly, &c.

She's warring and flyting frae morning till e'en,
And if ye gainsay her, her eye glowrs sae keen!
Then tongue, neive and cudgel, she'll lay on you sairly!
O gin my wife wad strike hooly and fairly!
⁠                Hooly and fairly, &c.

When tired wi' her cantraps, she lies in her bed,
The wark a' neglecket, the house ill up-red,
When a' our guid neighbours are stirring right early,
O gin my wife wad sleep timely and fairly!
⁠                Hooly and fairly, &c.

A word o' good counsel or grace she'll hear none,
She bardies the elders and mocks at mess John,
And back in his teeth his ain text she flings rarely!
O gin my wife wad speak hooly and fairly!
                ⁠Hooly and fairly, &c.

I wish I were single, I wish I were freed,
I wish I were doited, I wish I were dead;
Or she in the mools, to dement me nae mair, lay;
What does't avail to cry hooly and fairly?
⁠     Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly,
⁠     Wasting my breath to cry hooly and fairly! 



Joanna Baillie


Joanna Baillie's other poems:
  1. The Maid of Llanwellyn
  2. Female Picture of a Country Life
  3. Lines to a Parrot
  4. On Reading Walter Scot’s
  5. It Fell on a Morning Whan We Were Thrang


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