He wants a wee wifie, to bake and to brew;
But Saunders, for me, at the Mill may stay still,
For his first wife was pushioned, if what they say’s true.
The next is Tam Watt, who is grieve to the Laird,—
Last Sabbath, at puir me a sheep’s e’e he threw;
But Tam’s like the picters I’ve seen o’ Blue Beard,
And sic folk’s no that chancie, if what they say’s true.
Then there’s Grierson the cobbler, he’ll fleech an’ he’ll beg,
That I’d be his awl in awl, darlin’ and doo;
But Grierson the cobbler’s a happity leg,