In Scotland, as you know,—or should,—
Where porridge is the staple food,
They "sup them"—vide Scott or Galt—
With no concomitant but salt.
(The Southron, poor, misguided soul,
Puts sugar in his porridge bowl.)
Well, the good people of my tale,
Who lived on porridge, scones, and kail,
Had but one maid to wait and cook—
A slattern, grimy as the "crook";
A "fushionless" and "feckless" creature,
Without one grace of mind or feature.
Now, one "braw morn" the lass forgot
"Tae pit the sawt intil the pot."
In consequence, the breakfast-table
Was turned into a Tower of Babel ;
The "big anes" "girned," the "wee anes" "grat,"
The "guid-wife" tasted "them" and "spat,"
And (this sad fact I state with pain)
The "guidman" "took his name in vain!"
Next morning, going to the byre,
The farmer passed the kitchen fire;
He saw the porridge on the crook,
The salt-box in the chimney-nook
(The servant lassie wasn't nigh,
She'd gone outside to milk the "kye").
"I'll hae no cause again to sin,"
He said, and dropped a handful in.
The farmer's daughter next came through—
