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Poem	O STEER her up, an’ haud her gaun, Her mither’s at the mill, jo; An’ gin she winna tak a man, E’en let her tak her will, jo. First shore her wi’ a gentle kiss, And ca’ anither gill, jo; An’ gin she tak the thing amiss, E’en let her flyte her fill, jo. O steer her up, an’ be na blate, An’ gin she tak it ill, jo, Then leave the lassie till her fate, And time nae langer spill, jo: Ne’er break your heart for ae rebute, But think upon it still, jo: That gin the lassie winna do’t, Ye’ll find anither will, jo.
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