7
“Hoot,” quo’ Tam, “what’s a’ the Hurry!
Hame’s now source a mile o’ gate—
Come! sit down—Jean winna weary:
Dear me, man, it’s no sae late!”
Will, owrecome wi’ Tam’s oration.
Baith fell to and ate their fill;
“Tam,” quo’ Will, “ in mere discretion,
We maun ha’e the widow's gill."
After ae gill cain anither—
Meg sat cracking ’tween them twa;
Bang! cam in Mat Smith aim’s brither,
Geordie Brown and Sandy Shaw.
Neibours wha ne’er thought to meet here,
Now sat down wi’ double glee;
Ilka gill grew sweet and sweeter—
Will got hame ’tween twa and three.
Jean, poor thing, had lang been greetin’;
Will, neit morning, blamed Tam Lowes;
But, ere lang, a weekly meetin'
Was set up at Maggy Howe's.
PART II.
Waist things ha’e a stna’ beginning.
But wha kens how things will end?
Weekly clubs are nae great sinning,
If folk hae enough to spend.
But nae man o’ sober thinking,
E’er will say that things can thrive,
If there’s spent in weekly drinking
What keeps wife and weans alive.
Drink maun aye ha’e conversation,
Ilka social soul allows;
But in this reforming nation,
Wha can speak without the news?
