Senga, dancing

George Elgar Hicks:
The Lament of Jephthah's Daughter, 1871

I was tasked with writing a wee something on the story in Judges 11:29-40, of Jepthah's unnamed daughter - and the vow her father made. Thinking about that vow, I did wonder why he seemed so surprised and then struck by grief when his daughter came running to meet him. The vow was, after all, exceedingly specific: 
‘Whoever comes out of the doors of my house to meet me…’ 

Exactly who did Jephthah expect would come out of the house to meet him?
Not Nip the dog or Fluff the cat.
'Whoever', not 'whatever' - telling choice of word, that.
The text informs us that Jephthah's household is not exactly large: he has only one child. Presumably there's a mother... possibly some servants. Perhaps he had in mind a servant coming to meet his Master, to tend to him and the horse, then meet his Maker? Or, heaven forfend, Jephthah's wife - after all, only the one child, and a daughter at that...? He gets to fulfil his vow, and then replace the first wife with another more fertile companion? Brutal, but convenient.
But no, it's his daughter who meets him:
'Yay! Daddy's home!... You did what?!'

The unnamed daughter is sacrificed - after all, vows must be fulfilled and honour kept intact. She is the price to be paid to broker victory in battle, with no real agency of her own. And yet, for all that the outcome will still be the loss of her life, she speaks up:
she lays out her terms. If she's going to go, she'll go off and do what she needs to do - prepare in whatever way she needs to, hang out with her pals, perhaps have some big conversations where, whenever her Dad is mentioned, there's some serious side-eye happening.

I wanted this young woman to have a name... wondered about her response... thought about it in a more Scottish context. And the line wondered through my head:
'Wee Senga's off to the disco with her pals.'
So, below, a work in process. I'd quite like the finished product to be properly in Scots - we shall see!

Senga, dancing/
Wee Senga’s off to the disco with her pals.
They’ll dance around their handbags,
have a few swallies –
but not get too puggled, mind:
every moment, every minute,
meant to last a lifetime. 

Wee Senga’s off away soon.
They’ll dance like they’ve never danced before,
celebrate in style –
a cheeky Vimto and a stolen kiss,
and laugh to cover up the inner scream
at her body, brokered for him.

Wee Senga’s living like every day’s her last;
They’ll keep on dancing ‘til the party ends –
two months will go too fast –
an’ if anyone should tut and say:
‘but yer Da’ll kill you!’
She’ll just say: ‘Aye, so he will.’
     Nik Mac c.2023