"Night and day she's ever yelpin',
"Wi' the weans she ne'er can gree;
"Whan she's tir'd wi' perfect skelpin',
"Then she flees like fire on me.
"See ye, Mungo! when she'll clash on
"Wi' her everlasting clack,
"Whiles I've had my nieve, in passion,
"Liftet up to break her back!"
He flits through the orchard, he visits each tree,
The red flowering peach, and the apples' sweet blossoms,
He snaps up destroyers wherever they be,
And seizes the caitiffs that lurk in their bosoms;
He drags the vile grub from the corn it devours,
The worms from their beds, where they riot and welter,
His song and his services freely are ours,
And all that he asks is in summer a shelter.
The ploughman is pleased when he gleans in his train,
Now searching the furrows, now mounting to cheer him
The gardener delights in his sweet simple strain,
And leans on his spade to survey and to hear him;
The slow ling'ring school-boys forget they'll be chid,
While gazing intent as he warbles before 'em,
In mantle of sky blue, and bosom so red,
That each little loiterer seems to adore him.
'O! for gudesake, keep frae cuffets!'
Mungo shook his head and said,
'Weel I ken what sort o' life it's;
'Ken ye, Watty, how I did?
'After Bess and I war kippl'd,
'Soon she grew like ony bear,
'Brak' my shins, and, when I tippl'd,
Harl'd out my very hair!
When all the gay scenes of the summer are o'er,
And autumn slow enters, so silent and sallow,
And millions of warblers that charm'd us before
Have fled in the train of the sun-seeking swallow;
The blue-bird forsaken, yet true to his home,
Still lingers and looks for a milder to-morrow,
"Till forc'd by the horrors of winter to roam,
He sings his adieu in a lone note of sorrow.
While spring's lovely season, serene, dewy, warm,
The green face of earth, and the pure blue of heaven,
Or love's native music have influence to charm,
Or sympathy's glow to our feelings are given;
Still dear to each bosom the blue-bird shall be,
His voice like the thrillings of hope is a treasure,
For thro' bleakest storms, if a calm he but see,
He comes to remind us of sunshine and pleasure.
For a wee I quietly knuckl'd,
'But whan naething wad prevail,
Up my claes and cash I buckl'd,
Bess! for ever fare ye weel.
'Then her din grew less and less ay,
Haith I gart her change her tune: 'Now a better wife than Bessy
'Never stept in leather shoon.
Try this, Watty.-Whan ye see her
Ragin' like a roarin' flood,
'Swear that moment that ye'll lea' her;
'That's the way to keep her gude.'
Laughing, sangs, and lasses' skirls,
Echo'd now out thro' the roof,
DONE! quo' Pate, and syne his arls
Nail'd the Dryster's wauket loof.
I' the thrang o' stories telling,
Shaking han's, and joking queer, Swith! a chap comes on the hallan, "Mungo! is our Watty here?"
Maggy's weel-kent tongue and hurry,
Dartet thro' him like a knife,
Up the door flew—like a fury,
In came Watty's scaulin' wife..
Nesty, gude-for-naething being! "O ye snuffy drucken sow! "Bringin' wife an' weans to ruin, "Drinkin' here wi' sic a crew!
"Devil nor your legs war broken!
"Sic a life nae flesh endures-
"Toilin' like a slave, to sloken
"You, ye dyvor, and your 'hores!
"Rise! ye drucken beast o' Bethel!
"Drink's your night and day's desire:
"Rise, this precious hour! or faith I'll
"Fling your whisky i' the fire!"
Watty heard her tongue unhallow'd,
Pay'd his groat wi' little din,
Left the house, while Maggy fallow'd,
Flyting a' the road behin'.
Fowk frae every door cam' lampin',
Maggy curst them ane and a',
Clappit wi' her han's, and stampin',
Lost her bauchels i' the sna'.
Hame, at length, she turn'd the gavel,
Wi' a face as white's a clout,
Ragin' like a very devil,
Kicken stools and chairs about.
"Ye'll sit wi' your limmers round you! "Hang you, Sir! I'll be your death! "Little hauds my han's confound you! "But I cleave you to the teeth."
Watty, wha midst this oration
Ey'd her whiles, but durstna speak,
Sat like patient Resignation
Trem❜ling by the ingle cheek.
Sad his wee drap brose he sippet,
Maggy's tongue gaed like a bell,
Quietly to his bed he slippet,
Sighin' af'n 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!"
A' night lang he rowt and gauntet,
Sleep or rest he cou❜dna tak;
Maggy, aft wi' horror hauntet,
Mum'lin' startet at his back.
Soon as e'er the morning peepet,
Up raise Watty, waefu' chiel,
Kiss'd his weanies while they sleepet,
Wakent Meg, and saught fareweel,
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