The poem
Chorus.—She is a winsome wee thing, She is a handsome wee thing, She is a lo’esome wee thing, This dear wee wife o’ mine.
I NEVER saw a fairer, I never lo’ed a dearer, And neist my heart I’ll wear her, For fear my jewel tine, She is a winsome, &c.
The warld’s wrack we share o’t; The warstle and the care o’t; Wi’ her I’ll blythely bear it, And think my lot divine. She is a winsome, &c.