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