by Len Pennie
I’m no havin children, A’m gonnae hae weans;
an ye’ll can ask whit A cry them, no what are their names;
an they’ll be gettin a piece, no a wee packed lunch;
an they’ll be haein a scran, no having a munch;
they’ll fanny aboot, they willnae waste time,
an when they scrieve their wee poyums, A’ll mak sure they rhyme.
A’m no havin children, A’m gonnae hae weans,
who’ll be gowpin an bealin when they’ve goat aches an pains;
an instead of don’t worry, A’ll say dinnae fash;
instead of stand your ground, dinnae take any snash;
ma weans’ll be crabbit, no in a bad mood;
and they’ll greet, no cry, when their day isnae good.
A’m no havin children, A’m gonnae hae weans,
wae a prood ancient language crammed in their wee brains;
an whenever life tells them their English is bad,
A’ll tell them the hassles that their mammy had,
an A’ll say ma maw’s words till the day that A’m deid:
Ye’ll be awright, hen, ye’ve a guid Scots tongue in yer heid.
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