Page:'Twas on the morn of sweet May Day (1).pdf/7

 There'll just be ae bar to my pleasure,

A bar that's aft filled me wi' fear,

He's sic a hard, near-be-gawn miser,

He likes his saul less than his gear!

But though I now flatter his failin',

An' swear nocht wi' goud can compare,

Gude sooth! it sall soon get a scailin'!

His bags sall be mouldie nae mair!

I dreamt that I rade in a chariot,

A flunky ahint me in green;

While Geordie cried out he was barriet,

An' the saut tear was blindin’ his een;

But though 'gainst my spendin' he swear aye,

I'll hae frae him what sairs my turn;

Let him slip awa whan he grows weary,

Shame fa' me! gin lang I wad mourn!

But Geordie, while Meg was haranguin'

Was cloutin' his breeks i' the bauks,

An' whan a' his failins she brang in,

His strang hazle pike-staff he taks,

Designin' to rax her a lounder,—

He chanced on the ladder to shift,

An' down frae the bauks, flat's a flounder,

Flew, like a shot-starn frae the lift!

But Meg, wi' the sight, was quite hastered,

An' nae doubt, was bannin ill luck;

While the face o' poor Geordie was plastered,

An' his mou' was filled fu' o' the muck!