Wee Tottie Poem by Alexander Anderson

Wee tottie's the smile that lichts up oor hearthstane—
A dumpy bit thing that can scarce gang her lane;
Yet what aul'-farrant gab comes at times frae her mou',
As she sits on oor knee, wi' her hair ow'r her broo.


For she tells what she'll dae wi'her wee han's abreed,
An' what she'll no dae wi' a shake o' her heid;
Then lilts some bit sang, wi' her ain kin' o' glee,
Though nae singer, atweel, is her faither or me.


An' she gies siccan names, that we ne'er heard afore,
To the tables, the chairs, to the cupboard, an' door;
Then lauchs, wi' a lauch sweet an' clear as a bell,
At her ain Hebrew lore, that nane kens but hersel'.


Then she thrummels the leaves o' some aul' tatter'd book,
Readin' into hersel' wi' a mak'-believe look;
Then, seein' nae pictures to please her e'e there,
Tears a leaf oot for papers to curl up her hair.


But, O, if ye saw her, sae wife-like and droll,
When she gets her bit plaidie to carry her doll,
Hoo she whisks roun' the en's o't, then dumps through the hoose,
Like a Lilliput mither tosh, sonsie and douce.


Then, after she gies her wee baby a sook,
She rows't up sae cozy and lays't in some nook;
Then, wearied hersel', creeps up on to my knee,
Rubs her een, an' my dawtie's as soun' as can be.


So wee Tottie maun gang to her bed an' sleep soun',
While fairies through a' the still nicht hover roun'—
Sleep, sleep till the mornin', then rise a' her lane,
An' be her ain mither's Wee Tottie again.