The Babie

Jeremiah Eames Rankin (1828–1903)

NAE shoon to hide her tiny taes,

Nae stockin’ on her feet;

Her supple ankles white as snaw,

Or early blossoms sweet.

Her simple dress o’ sprinkled pink,

Her double, dimplit chin,

Her puckered lips an’ baumy mou’,

With na ane tooth within.

Her een sae like her mither’s een,

Twa gentle, liquid things;

Her face is like an angel’s face,

We ’re glad she has nae wings.

She is the buddin’ o’ our luve,

A giftie God gied us:

We maun na luve the gift owre weel,

’T wad be nae blessing thus.

We still maun lo’e the Giver mair

An’ see Him in the given;

An’ sae she ’ll lead us up to Him,

Our babie straight frae Heaven.