The wife her husband thus addresses, With doubled fist and flowing tresses,-- “Come, Tom, make haste, let us away, The tide flows high, we cannot stay.” “Nay, answers Tom, deel smash my heart! Let us but have the other quart.” She then begins to sing a song, Would frighten any man but Tom,-- “You idle spendthrift, scant of grace, I wish I ne’er had seen your face; A cleanlier lass was never bred, When I came to your bridal bed. Had fouth of claiths to clead my back, But now I’ve scarce a single plack: You’ve left me bare of bed and claiths, Deel brust you, by your graceless ways; And when you’re drunk as you can see, Come home and curse the bairns and me. Turn topsy turvy all the house, And every thing in it abuse; Throw all the dishes off the shelf, The platters, dubblers, and the delf. And set the plates and spoons, in joke, A flying round the room like smoke: And when your family’s in need, And like to starve for want of breed, You’ll grudge for haver-meal to pay, To make them crowdies once a day. These are your pranks, you murd’ring rogue, That every day you have in vogue; And if you do not mend your course, I must go beg--or else do worse.” Tom out his hand at last did stretch, “What ails you now? you grumbling bitch, Peace! or your hide I’ll soundly switch. Do not I almost ev’ry day, At the _lang hinney’s_ o’er the way, See Geordy Jenkin’s wife and you, Drinking clove waters till you spue! Go to the devil with your brats, And vex me not with d----’d pit-rats, That are not all of my begetting, But plants of other people’s setting. Since you have oft, by your confession, From my embraces made digression, Go home, G-d d--n your soul, and spin, Or else, by L--d, I’ll lamb your skin.”
Thus fast unto destruction hasting, Their health consuming, money wasting; They drink, and ne’er for home declare, Until they’re pockets are quite bare. Here mangy Scots from banks of Tay, With scarce a plaid to bear away; Half-starv’d, they from the frozen North, Like swarms of locusts, sally forth, Worse than before, on Pharaoh’s land, Were sent by the Almighty hand; Such hardness of their hearts to purge, And for their wickedness them scourge: This mugletonian blackguard breed, Upon our very vitals feed; And, like the whelps of Juno’s pack, Of Scots infection bring a smack; When hither come, they seldom fail To scrape the scabs from off their tail; By artful tricks, and well form’d lies, To skippers or such like, they rise: And thus get breeches warm to wear, To hide their a--e that then was bare; And then set up their crops and talk, As if they sprung from noble stalk.