What ails thee then, woman, what ails thee?
doesn’t ter know?
If tha canna say’t, come then an’ scraight it out on my bosom!
Eh - Men doesna ha’e bosoms?’appen not, on’y tha knows what
I mean.
Come then, tha can scraight it out on my shirt-front
an’ tha’lt feel better.
- in the first place, I don’t scraight.
And if I did, I certainly couldn’t scraight it out.
And if I could, the last place I should choose
would be your shirt-front
or your manly bosom either.
So leave off trying putting the Robbie Bums touch over me
and kindly hand me the cigarettes
if you haven’t smoked them all,
which you’re much more likely to do
than to shelter anybody from the cau-auld blast.