Latin Prayers not Fit for Irishmen/Margaret and the Minister
MARGARET
AND THE MINISTER.
A douse, religious, kintry wife,That liv'd a quiet contented life,To show respect unto the priest,Whom she esteem'd within her breast,Catch'd twa fathens, baith big an' plumpAn' butter she pack'd up a lump,Which she a present meant to gie him,And wi' them aff she gaed to see him.Dress'd in her ain auld kintry fas 'on,Wi' brown stuff gown, an' braw white bussin,A dark blue cloak an' hood co'er'd a',Sae lade, sae clad, she march'd awa;Thus trudg'd—alang-an' hence, belyveAt the manse door she did arrive—Rapp't, was admitted by the maid;Ben to the kitchen wi' her gade—Syne for the Minister inquir'd,Who soon came butt, as she desir'd,When she to him a curtchie made,An' he to her thus smiling said Min. O! my dear Margaret, is this youI'm glad to see you; How d'ye do?How's Tamos, my auld worthy frien'?How's Jock your son, an' daughter Jean.Mar. They're gaily, Sir, we're a mea heal—Tho' Tamie's e'en but craz'dan fraBut here's some butter, I present ye,Which wi' thir hens I compliment yeMin. Howt, Margʻret! this speaks t'expenseBut thanks ye'se get for recompenceWi' gratefu' heart, I freely tellYe're ever kind an' like yoursel.Mar. Whisht, Sir! wi' thanks—na thanks ava;Ye're worthy mair—the gift's but sma';But this acknowledgement from us,Means ye're beloved by mean' Tamos.Min. Sic favours, sure I ne'er expectedYet blyth am I, I'm sae respected;Fling off your cloak and follow me;Come ben, an' rest an, crack awee:'Tis no sae aft ye come to see us;Ye'll wait an tak your dinner wi'us—It's ready, waiting on my comin'; Come ben then, Margret, honest womanMar. Na, na, Sir! dinna speak o' that,I'll tak' nae dinner weel I wat:Wi' gentle manners (ye will grant it)I've ever yet been unacquantit.Min. The manners that ye use at hame—Use here, an' banish fear an' shame.The company's but few they're whollyMy wife, a preacher, Jess, and Polly;Ye'se tak' your dinner or ye gangJust do like me, ye'll no gae wrangTo dine, at length, she was advisedGade glowrin' ben like ane suprised;Spread wide her gown, her head ereck'd,Confus'd and awkwardly she beck'dWhile rev'rend Mess John, kind and fairConducted her unto a chair;An' told them wi' a knacky sentence,She was an intimate acquaintance.Blate like, aroun' them a' she gaz'd;But at the table was amaz'd,She ne'er before saw siken fairlies,Sae mony antic turly-whurlies,How to behave, while she was eating,In sic a nicy, gentle meeting,She had great fears—her heart was beating, Her legs did shake—her face was sweating,But still she was resolved anon,To do in a' things like Mess John.
A' ready sitting face to face,His rev'rence, gravely said the grace;Then, wi' a frank an' open air,Bade them fa'on, an' lib'ral share.But he being with the palsy troubl'dIn lifting spounfu's often dribbld,Sae to prevent the drops o' broth,He prin'd to's breast the table cloth.Now Margret's settled resolution,Was quickly put in execution;For, as was said already; she did.Resolved to do whatever he did,She therefore also like the priest,Prin'd the cloth firmly to her breast,(Wi' a prin twa inches lang at least;Which smiles frae them at table drewAs far's gude, dreeding wad allow.
Sae soon as they the kail had supp'oTo glancin' knives an' forks they gripp'dWi' them to weel fill'd plates fell keenlyAte—took a drink—an' crackit frienlyBut Margret only was a hearer, She was sae blate; nought seem'd to cheer herSae mony things appearing new,Cam'ilka minute in her view,And fill'd her mind sae fu' o' dread,Cracking was clean out o' her head.In course, the Pastor, her example,That brought her there to feed her ample,She notic'd twa or three times takeOut o' 'a' dish slaik after slaikO' Mustard; which she judg'd to beGravie, or some delicious brie;For Margret never did peruse it.Kenn'd na' it's name, or how to use it;But now determin'd to partake o't,She wi' a tea-spoon took a slaik o't,Heedless she supped up the whole,Then instantly she looked droll,Dung doited in a moment's space,She hung her head and threw her face!Threw down her knife an' fork displeas'dSyne wi' baith hands her nose she seiz'd,While it did bite an' blin' her een;The like o't sure was never seen;For startin' up as fast as able;The hale gear tumbl'd aff the table!The crash o' crock'ry ware resounded, Plates truntlin'—ilka ane confounded.Straight to the door she frantic flew,An' after her Mess John she drew;Which drave the company a' throuther,As they were kippled baith thegither.But in a crack, the prins brak loose,An' Margret, ravin' left the house,Hameward, in haste, she hobbl' sweatingTell'd Tamos the disaster greetingWrang baith her han's an'solemn sware,To dine wi' gentle folk nae mair.