PART II.
A’ Maids, therefore, I do bemoan,
Betwixt the rivers Dee and Don,
If anes they get a taste o’ yon,
Though by the laird,
The toy-mutch maun then gae on,
Nae mair bare-hair’d.
Yet wanton Venus, that she-b—h,
Does a’ our senses sae bewitch,
An’ fires our blood wi’ sic an itch,
That aftentimes,
There is nae help but to commit,
Some ill-far’d crimes.
Yet some they are sae very willing,
At ony time they’ll tak’ a shilling,
But he that learnt them first that spelling,
Or Meg or Nell,
Be sure, to him they’ll lay an egg in;
This some can tell.
Unthinking things! it is their creed,
If some sic things be done wi’ speed,
They’re safe, ’tis help in time o’ need,
Nae after-claps:
Tho’ nine months aft brings quick or dead,
Into their laps.
Experience thus makes me speak,
I ance was hooked wi’ the cleek,
I almost had beshit my breek,
When Maggy told,
That by her saul, not e’en a week
Young Jack would hold.
She was sae stiff she cou’d not loot;
Your pranks she says, are now found out,
The kirk and you maun hae a bout;
Ill mat you fare,
’Tis a’ your ain, you need na doubt
Ilk hilt an hair.
Alas that e’er I saw your face,
I can nae langer hide the case;
Had I foreseen this sad disgrace,
Nae man nor you,
Shou’d e’er hae met me in yon place,
Or kiss’d my mou’.
O Dominie, you’re dispossest,
Ye hae defil’d your holy nest,
The warld sees ye hae transgrest,
I’m at my time,
Ye dare nae mair, now do your best
Let gae the rhyme.
Ohon! how weel I might hae kent,
When first to you I gae consent,
Wi’ me to mak your merriment,
How a’ would be:
Alas! that e’er my loom I lent
That day to thee.
Wae to the night I first began
To mix my moggans wi’ thee man:
’Tis needless now to curse or ban,
But deil hae me,
Ye’ll pay an’ sit, for sit ye can,
An’ that ye’ll see.
I heard her as I heard her not,
But time and place had quite forgot,
I guess’d Young Jack fell to my lot;
For I could tell,
It was too short her petticoat,
By half an ell.
Wi’ blubber’d cheeks, and watry nose,
Her weary story she did close;
I said the best, and aff she goes
Just like a thief,
An’ took a glass to interpose,
’Twixt mirth and grief.
Yet would hae gi’en my ha’f year’s fee,
Had Maggy then been jesting me,
Had tartan purry, meal an’ bree,
Or buttr’y brose,
Been kilting up her petticoats
Aboon her hose.
But time that tries such praticks past,
Brought me out o’er the coals fu’ fast;
Poor Maggy took a sudden blast,
And o’er did tumble,
For something in her wame at last
Began to rumble.
Our folk ca’d it the windy gravel,
That grips the guts beneath the navel,
But laith was she for to unravel
Their gross mistake,
Weel kend she, that she was in travail,
Wi’ little Jack.
But, to put matters out of doubt,
Young John within would fain been out,
An’ but an’ ben made sic a rout
Wi’ hands and feet,
That she began twa-fauld about
The house to creep.
Then dool an’ sorrow interveen’d;
For Jack nae langer could be screen’d,
My lass upon her breast she lean’d,
An’ gae a skirl.
The canny wives came there conveen’d,
An’ in a whirl.
They wrought together in a crowd;
By this time I was under cloud;
Yet bye and bye I understood,
They made one more,
For Jack he tun’d his pipe, and loud
Wi’ cries did roar.
Wi’ that they blam’d the Session-Clark;
Where is the lown hid in the dark?
For he’s the father o’ this wark:
Swear to his mither,
He’s just as like him as ae lark
Is like anither.
About me then there was a din,
They sought me out through thick an’ thin,
Wi’ deil hae her, an deil hae him,
He’s o’er the dyke;
Our Dominie has now dung in
His arse a pike.
Ye may weel judge I was right sweer,
This uncouth meeting to draw near,
Yet forc’d I was then to appear,
Altho’ perplex’d;
But listen how, and ye shall hear,
The hags me vex’d.
The carlings Maggy had sae cleuked,
Before young Jack was rightly hooked,
They made her twice as little booked,
But to gae on,
O then! how like a fool I looked,
When I saw John.
The Cummer then came to me bent,
And gravely, did my son present;
She bade me kiss him, be content,
Then wish’d me joy;
An’ tauld it was—what luck had sent,
A waly boy.
In ilka member, lith an’ lim’,
Its mouth, its nose, its cheeks, its chin,
’Tis a’ like daddy, just like him,
His very self,
Though it look’d cankered sour and grim,
Like ony elf.
Then whisp’ring now to me she harked,
Indeed your hips they should be yarked,
Nae mair Mess John, nor dare ye Clarkit,
Faith ye hae ca’d
Your hogs into a bonny markit,
Indeed my lad.
But tell me, man, (I should say master,)
What muckle deil in your way chas’d her?
Lowns baith! but I think I hae plac’d her,
Now on her side,
My coming here has not disgrac’d her,
At the Yule-tide.
An’ for yoursell, ye dare na look
Hereafter ever on a book,
Your mou’ about the psalms to crook;
Ye’ve play’d the fool,
Anither now your post maun bruik,
An’ you the stool.
She bann’d her saul, and then she blest it,
That in the Kirk-books it would be lifted,
An’ thus the weary wife insisted,
Our Lettergae
Will sit whar he will not be pish’t at
By dogs some day.
She wrung her hands until they cracked,
An’ sadly me she sham’d an’ lacked—
Ah, man! the Priest, how will he tak’ it,
Whan he hears tell,
How Maggy’s mitten ye hae glacket,
Ye ken yoursell.
The Session-Clark to play such prankies,
Ye’ll stan’ I fear upon your shankies,
An’ maybe slaver in the brankies;
It could na miss,
But lifting o’ the killimankies,
Would turn to this.
A toothless Howdy, auld and teugh,
Says, Cummer husht, we hae eneugh,
Thirsh mony ane has touch’d the pleugh,
As gude ash he,
An’ yetsh gane backlensh o’er the heugh,
Shae let him be.
Hesh no, quoth she, though he’sh be lear’d,
That ye ken what, they hae crept near’t,
Far you an I hash aft-times heard
O’ nine or ten,
Wha thush the clergy hath beshmear’d
Wi’ their ain pen.
The auld mou’d wives thus did me taunt,
Though a’ was true, I must needs grant,
But ae thing maistly made me faint,
Poor Meg lay still,
An’ look’d as loesome as a saint
That kend nae ill.
Then a’ the giglets young and gaudy,
Sware by their sauls, I might be wady,
For getting sic a lusty laddy,
Sae like mysell;
An’ made me blush wi’ speaking baudy,
’Bout what befel.
Thus auld an’ young their verdict had,
’Bout Maggy’s being brought to bed,
I thought my fill, yet little said,
Or had to say,
To reap the fruit o’ sic a trade,
On gude-yule day.
What sometimes in the mou’ is sweet,
Turns bitter in the wame;
I grumbled sair to get the geet,
At sic a merry time.