Within years leſs then ha'f a dizen,
She made poor Maggy ly in jizen,
When little Jock brak out o' priſon
On gude Yule day,
This of any quiet cut the wiſen,
When he wan gae.
Let readers, then, tak better heed,
For fear they kiſs mair than they read,
In caſe they wear the facken-weed
For fornication,
Or leave the prieſt-craft ſhot to dead
For procreation.
The maiſt o' them, like blind an' iame,
Have nae averfion 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 fit at hame, an' 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
An' a firelock.
Sae ſhall they never mount the ſtool,
Whereon the laſſes greet an' howl,
Tho' deil a tear, ſcarce fair our ſoul,
Comes o'er their cheeks;
Their mind's not there, 'tis ſpinning wool,
Or mending breeks.
The
