5 Rise, this precious hour! or faith I'll Fling your whisky is the fire.' Watty heard her tongue unhallowed, Pay'd his groat wi' little din, Left the house, while Maggy fallow'd, Flyting a' the road behin'. Folk frae every door cam lamping, Maggy curst them ane and a'; Clappit wi' her hands, and stamping, Lost her bauchels i' the snaw. Hame, at length, she turn'd the gavel, Wi' a face as white's a clout, Ragin' like a very devil, Kickin stools and chairs about: 'Ye'll sit wi' your limmers round you! Hang you, Sir, I'll be your death; Little hauds my hands, confound you! But I cleave you to the teeth.' Watty, wha midst this oration Ey'd her whiles, but durst na speak, ⟨Sat⟩, like patient Resignation, Trembling by the ingle check. ⟨Sad⟩ his wee drap brose he sippet, Maggy's tongue gaed like a bell; Quietly to his bed he slippet, Sighin aften to himsel'— 'Nane are free frae some vexation, Ilk ane has his ills to dree; But thro' a' the hale creation Is a mortal vext like me!'
