8
He drew his arms frae ’bout my neck,
As if he’d touch’d an adder!
“Weel, Bet!” says he, what brings you here
My troth, but you're a trimmer!
Gae, rise, an’ mend the kitchen fire,
You lewd lascivious limmer!”
“ Na, na, gudeman! do that yoursel’—
I’ll rise when I am ready;
I was your servant yesterday,
But now I am your lady!”
But wha could paint his waspish face,
As I the facts were telling!
His miser-moaus, his sil’er-shrieks,
Were like a cuddy’s yelling!
Wi’ rage, he fell upon the floor,
And gi’ed a roar like thun’er;
But matrimony’s chains are strong—
There’s few they’ll not keep un’er.
Now since his single woes are past,
An’ he has got a baby,
His looks hae quite anither cast,
His dress is never shabby.
An’ aye he blesses Bet his wife,
The night she nail’d him till her,
An’ wadna be a Batch again
For a' his lan’ an’ sil’er.
