To Ethel.

A poem by Wilfred S. Skeats

So you think you will be a Scotch lassie;
The braw Hieland lad in a kilt
Has taken your fancy, dear, has he?
And you, too, would be clad in a "tilt."

Well, not one will gainsay you nor blame you,
For your wishes are ever fulfilt;
And how proudly your father will claim you,
When arrayed in a tartan and "tilt"!

And your mother will certainly further
The hopes that her Ethel has built;
You have only to ask to ensure their
Fulfilment concerning the "tilt."

And I--(Oh! I know I don't count, dear,
And for speaking acknowledge my guilt,
For my wishes to nothing amount, dear,)
I would rather you hadn't a "tilt."

For although thou wilt take us by storm, dear,
Looking sweet, as thou certainly wilt,
Yet, you know, it is very bad form, dear,
And not English to wish for a "tilt."

And I thought, (but of course was mistaken,
For my hopes lie around me all spilt),
That my Ethel would never awaken
To sigh for a Hielander's "tilt."

None the less will I try to be glad then,
Nor let courtesy play me the jilt;
Though I know that my heart will be sad when
Little Ethel is wearing her "tilt".