A-takin’ the strength her own pot-pies and puddin’s had gin him, and a-spendin’ it all on writin’ verses to other females.
His heart a-beatin’ voyalent aginst the vest she had newly vamped for some other “Chloris” or “Clorinda” or etc., etc., etc., etc.
A-walkin’ off in the stockin’s she had new heeled to catch a glimpse of some “lassie wi’ lint white locks,” so’s he could put her rustic beauty into rhyme.
A-throwin’ himself down in a good coat that she’d jest washed and fixed up, to look up into the sky and apostrofize some other female up in Heaven.
It must have been tough on Jean—fearful gauldin’ to her!
But, then, mebby she wuz willin’ to have the fire of his genius catch a brightness and glow from any object. And woman’s beauty wuz always, to Robert Burns, what the very best kindlin’ wood is to me when vittles are to be produced in a hurry.
Mebby she looked on it with a lenitent eye—most likely she did, or she couldn’t thought so much on him as she did.
I guess he wuz a good, tender husband to her, and a good provider, so fur as his means went.
But thinks I, here is another sample of the devotion and constancy of my own sect. I thought on her about 17 minutes.
Other tourists may foller my example or not, jest as they think best, but I done it, and am glad on’t. But to resoom.