Fine div I ken what ails yon puddock, Janet,
That aince would hae her neb set up sae hie;
There's them that disna’ seem to understan’ it,
I'se warrant ye it's plain eneuch to me!
Maybe ye'll mind her man — a fine wee cratur,
Owre blate to speak ( puir thing, he didna’ daur );
What gar'd him fecht was jist his douce-like natur’;
Gairmans is bad, but Janet's tongue was waur.
But noo he's hame again, ye wadna ken her,
He isna’ feared to contradic’ her flat;
He smokes a’ day, comes late to get his denner,
( I mind the time she'd sort him weel for that! )
What's gar'd her turn an’ tak’ a road divairgint?
Ye think she's waebecause he wants a limb?
Ach! haud yer tongue, ye fule — the man's a sairgint,
An’ there's nae argy-bargyin’ wi’ him!