'Twas on the morn of sweet May Day (1829)/Haluket Meg

HALUKET MEG.

Air—"The mucking o' Geordie's byre."

Meg, muckin' at Gordie's byre,
⁠Wrought as gin her judgment was wrang ;
Ilk daud o' the scartle struck fire,
⁠While, loud as a lavrock, she sang!
Her Geordie had promised to marry,
⁠An' Meg, a sworn fae to despair,
Not dreamin' the job could miscarry,
⁠Already seemed mistress an' mair!

My neebours, she sang, aften jeer me,
⁠An' ca' me daft halucket Meg,
An' say, they expect soon to hear,
⁠I' the kirk, for my fun, get a fleg!
An' now, 'bout my marriage they clatter,
⁠'An' Geordie, poor fallow! they ca'
An' auld doitit hav'rel!—Nae matter,
⁠He'll keep me aye braukin an' braw!

I grant ye, his face is kenspeckle,
⁠That the white o' his e'e is turned out,
That his black beard is rough as a heckle,
⁠That his mou' to his lug's rax'd about;
But they needna let on that he's crazie,
⁠His pike-staff wull ne'er let him fa';
Nor that his hair's white as a daisie,
⁠For, fient a hair has he ava!

But a weel-plenish'd mailin has Geordie,
⁠An' routh o' gude good in his kist;
An' if siller comes at my wordie,
⁠His beauty I never will miss't!
Daft gouks, wha catch fire like tinder,
⁠Think love-raptures ever wull burn!
But wi' poortith, hearts het as a cinder
⁠Wull cauld as an iceshogle turn!

There'll just be ae bar to my pleasure,
⁠A bar that's aft filled me wi' fear,
He's sic a hard, near-be-gawn miser,
⁠He likes his saul less than his gear!
But though I now flatter his failin',
⁠An' swear nocht wi' goud can compare,
Gude sooth! it sall soon get a scailin'!
⁠His bags sall be mouldie nae mair!

I dreamt that I rade in a chariot,
⁠A flunky ahint me in green;
While Geordie cried out he was barriet,
⁠An' the saut tear was blindin’ his een;
But though 'gainst my spendin' he swear aye,
⁠I'll hae frae him what sairs my turn;
Let him slip awa whan he grows weary,
⁠Shame fa' me! gin lang I wad mourn!

But Geordie, while Meg was haranguin'
⁠Was cloutin' his breeks i' the bauks,
An' whan a' his failins she brang in,
⁠His strang hazle pike-staff he taks,
Designin' to rax her a lounder,—
⁠He chanced on the ladder to shift,
An' down frae the bauks, flat's a flounder,
⁠Flew, like a shot-starn frae the lift!

But Meg, wi' the sight, was quite hastered,
⁠An' nae doubt, was bannin ill luck;
While the face o' poor Geordie was plastered,
⁠An' his mou' was filled fu' o' the muck!
Confound ye! cried Geordie, and spat out
⁠The glaur that adown his beard ran;-
Preserve us! quo' Meg, as she gat out
⁠The door,—an' thus lost a gudeman!