6 Rise, ye drucken beast o' Bethel, Drink's your nicht and day's desire: Rise, this precious hour, or faith I'll Fling your whiskey i' the fire! Watty heard her tongue unhallowed, Pay'd his groat wi' little din, Left the house, while Maggy fallowed, Flyting a' the road behin'. Fowk frae every door eame lamping, Maggy curst them ane and a'; Clappet wi her hands, and stamping, Lest her bauchles i' the sna.' Hame, at length, she turned the gavel, Wi' a face as white's a clout, Raging like a very devil, Kicking 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'll cleave you to the teeth." Watty, wha, 'midst this oration, Eyed her whiles, but durstna speak, Bat like patient Resignation, Trembling by the ingle cheek. Sed his wee drap brose he sippet, Maggy's tongue gaed like a bell, Quietly to his bed he slippet, Sighing aften to himsel'. "Nane are free frae some vexation, Ilk ane has his ills to dree;
