Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/The First Bawbee

The First Bawbee.

Oh nane, I trow, in a' the earth
Was happier than me,
When in my wee breek pouch I got
My first bawbee.

I turned it roun' and roun' wi' pride,
Syne toddled aff wi' glee,
To ware on something that was good
My first bawbee.

I met auld grannie at the door;
"Noo, Bab," says she, "tak' care
Nae feckless whigmaleeries buy
Whan you gang to the fair.

"A gaucy row, a soncy scone,
Is best for ane that's wee,
For muckle lies in hoo you ware
Your first bawbee."

My grannie's words were soon forgot
When to the Fair I gaed,
An' saw sae mony fairhes there
On ilka staun' arrayed.

I glowered at this and glanced at that
Wi' roving, greedy e'e,
Syne felt dumfounert hoo to ware
My first bawbee.

Here apples lay in mony a creel,
A' temp'in' to the view,
An' pears and plooms, whase very looks
Brocht water to my mou'.

An' there were toshed wee picture-books,
A' spread oot nice to see;
They seemed to say, "Come here and ware
Your first bawbee."

I kenned the ane wid 'gust the gab,
The ither tell me how
Cock Robin fell that waefu' day
The sparrow drew his bow.

Them baith waesooks I couldna get,
An' sae wi' tearfu' e'e
I swithered lang on whilk to spen'
My first bawbee.

At length a wheedlin' Eerish loon
Began to brawl an' brag;
Says he, "Come here, my little lad,
An' try the lucky bag.

If you have but one copper got—
For it you may get three;
Shure, never venture never win—
Come sport wi' your bawbee."

Sae at the bag I tried my luck;
But hope was dang agee—
A blank was mine, and sae I lost
My first bawbee.

A tear cam' happin' ower my cheek,
As sad I daundered hame,
Wi' hunger tum'lin' up an' doun
Like win' within my wame.

I telt auld grannie a' my tale;
"You've gane far wrang," said she;
"But muckle guid may yet come oot
Your first bawbee."