7
Within years less than half a dizen,
She made poor Maggy lie in jizen,
When little Jack brake out o’ prison
On gude Yule-day,
This of my quiet cut the wizen,
When he wan gae.
Let readers, then, tak better heed,
For fear they kiss mair than they read,
In case they wear the sacken-weed
For fornication,
Or leave the priest-craft shot to dead
For procreation.
The maist o’ them, like blind an’ lame,
Have nae aversion to the game,
But better ’twere to tak her hame,
Their pot to cook,
And teach his boys to write a theme,
And mind their book.
Then may they sit at hame and please
Themsells wi’ gathering in their fees,
While I must face mine enemies,
Or shaw my dock;
There’s odds’ twixt handling pens wi’ ease
And a firelock.
Sae shall they never mount the stool,
Whereon the lasses greet and howl,
Tho’ deil a tear, scarce fair or foul,
Comes o’er their cheeks;
Their mind’s not there, ’tis spinning wool,
Or mending breeks.
