Gordon, Donald
God hid made man, bit fan it wis dane
Wis feart he micht weary, jist bidin his lane.
There wis nae ither cratur wi fa he wis sib,
Sae God socht o Adam the lane o a rib
An made him a wife,
Aye, He made him a wife,
A fine, sonsie deemie, a helpmate for life.
Bit wait or I tell ye: the best o intent
Is nae aye successfu in daein fat's meant.
Tae start wi, young Adam wis pleased wi the queyn;
They kissed an they cuddled, an likit it fine.
Bit man, she wid blether,
My faith! she wid blether.
Puir Adam wis near at the end o his tether.
Anither thing tae: the laddie seen cam
Tae see she wis ettlin tae play the grande dame.
As the autumn drew on, wi a nip i' the air,
She keepit complainin she'd naethin tae wear.
Fan he'd vrocht in his Gairden for oo'ers and oo'ers
She'd be pickin his aipples, an pu'in his floo'ers.
Richt discomfittin, thon.
An he felt a nicht feel
Fan he caught her conversin wi serpents as weel.
Sae he said tae the Lord, that fan aa's said an dane
He's be far better shuited jist bidin his lane
For eften an aa,
Aye, efter an aa,
He wisna that keen on a helpmate ava.
The Lord jist acceptit the hale situation,
Though He kind o regrettit the end o creation.