5
Rise, this precious hour! or faith I’ll
Fling your whisky in the fire.
Watty, heard her tongue unhallow’t
Pay’t his groat wi’ little din;
Left the house, while Maggy followed,
Flyting a’ the road behin’.
Fowk frae every door cam lampin,
Maggy curst them ane an a’.
Clappit wi’ her hands and stampin,
Lost her bauchles in the snaw.
Hame, at length she turned the gavel,
wi’ a face as white’s a clout,
Raging like a very devil
kickan stools and chairs about.
Ye’ll sit wi your limmers round you!
hang you, sir! I’ll be your death;
Little hauds my hauns confound you!
but I cleave you to the teeth.
Watty, wha midst this oration,
eyed her whiles, but durstna speak,
Sat like patient Resignation,
trembling by the insle cheek.
Sad his wee drap brose he suppet,
Maggy’s tongue gaed like a bell,
Quietly to his bed he slipp’t,
sighin aften to himsel,
Nane are free frae some vexation,
ilk ana has his ills to dree;
But through a the hale creation,
