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 She bann’d her saul, and then she blest it,

In the Kirk-books it would be listed;

An’ thus the weary wife insisted,

Our Lettergae

Will sit whar he will not be pisht at

By dogs some day.

She wrung her hands until they cracked,

An’ sadly me she sham’d an’ lacked—

Ah man! the Priest, how will he tak it,

Whan he hears tell,

How Maggy’s mitten ye hae glaiket,

Ye ken yoursell.

The Session Clark to play sic prankies,

Ye’ll stan’, I fear, upo’ your shankies,

An’ may be slaver in the brankies;

It cou’dna miss,

But lifting Maggy’s callimankies

Wou’d turn to this.

A touthless Houdy, auld and tough,

Says, Cummer, husht, we hae aneugh,

Thirsh mony ane has touch’t the pleugh,

Ash gude ash he,

An’ yetch gane backlench o’er the heugh,

Sae let him be.

Hesh no, quoth she, tho’ he’sh be lear’d,

That ye ken what, they hae crept near’t,

For you an’ I hash aftimes heard

O’ nine or ten,

Wha thush the Clergy hath beshmear’d

Wi’ their ain Pen.