Rise, ye drucken beast o’ Bethel,
Drink’s your night and day's desire
Rise, this precious hour, or faith I’ll
Fling your Whiskey i’ the fire!’
Watty heard her tongue unhallowed,
Payed his groat wi’ little din,
Left the house, while Maggy fallowed,
Flyting a’ the road behin’.
Fowk frae every door came lamping,
Maggy curst them ane and a’;
Clappin’ wi’ her hands, and stamping,
She lost her bauchles i’ the sna’.
Hame, at length, she turned the gavel,
Wi’ a face as white’s a clout,
Raging like a very devil,
Kicking stools and chairs about.
‘ Ye’ll sit wi’ your limmers round you,
Hang you, sir! I’ll be your death;
Little hauds my hands, confound you,
But I’ll cleave you to the teeth.’
Watty, wha’ ’midst this oration,
Eyed her whiles, but durstna speak,
Sat like patient Resignation,
Trembling by the ingle cheek.
Sad his wee drap brose he sippet,
Maggy’s tongue gaed like a bell,
Quietly to his bed he slippet,
Sighing aften to himsel’:
‘ Nane are free frae some vexation,
Ilka ane has ills to dree;
But through a’ the hale creation
Is a mortal vext like me
