5
Rise this precious hour, or faith I’ll
Fling yoar whisky i’ the fire.
Watty heard her tongue unhallow,
Paid his groat wi’ little din,
Left the house, while Maggy follow’t
Flytin’ a‘ the road ahim
Folk frae every door cam lampin,
Maggy curst them ane and a’
Clappit wi’ her hands, and, stampin,
Lost her beachels i’ the snaw.
Hame at length she turn'd the gavel,
Wi' a face as white's a clout,
Raging like a very devil;
Kicking stools and chairs about.
Yell sit wi' your limmers round ye!
Hang you, Sir, I'll be your death;
Little hands my hands confound ye,
But I cleave you o’ the teeth.
Watty, wha midst this oration
Ee’d her whiles, but durstna speak,
Sat like patient resignation,
Trembling by the ingle cheek,
Sad his wee drap brose, he suppet,
Maggy's tongue gaed like a bell,
Quietly; to his bed he slippet,
Sighing aften to himsel.
Nane are free frae some vexation,
Ilk ane has his ills to dree,
But thro ‘a the hale creation
Is a moral vext like me.
