7
There'll just be ae bar to my pleasure,
A bar that's aft filled me wi' fear,
He's sic a hard, near-be-gawn miser,
He likes his saul less than his gear!
But though I now flatter his failin',
An' swear nocht wi' goud can compare,
Gude sooth! it sall soon get a scailin'!
His bags sall be mouldie nae mair!
I dreamt that I rade in a chariot,
A flunky ahint me in green;
While Geordie cried out he was barriet,
An' the saut tear was blindin’ his een;
But though 'gainst my spendin' he swear aye,
I'll hae frae him what sairs my turn;
Let him slip awa whan he grows weary,
Shame fa' me! gin lang I wad mourn!
But Geordie, while Meg was haranguin'
Was cloutin' his breeks i' the bauks,
An' whan a' his failins she brang in,
His strang hazle pike-staff he taks,
Designin' to rax her a lounder,—
He chanced on the ladder to shift,
An' down frae the bauks, flat's a flounder,
Flew, like a shot-starn frae the lift!
But Meg, wi' the sight, was quite hastered,
An' nae doubt, was bannin ill luck;
While the face o' poor Geordie was plastered,
An' his mou' was filled fu' o' the muck!
