Page:Margaret and the minister; a true tale (1).pdf/6

 Plates truntlin‘—ilka ane confounded.

Straight to the door she frantie flew,

An‘ after her Mess John she drew;

Which drave the company a’ throuther,

As they were kippled baith thegither.

But in a crack, the prins brak loose,

An’ Margret, ravin’ left the house,

Hameward, in haste, she hobbl’d sweating,

Tell,d Tamos the disaster greeting

Wrung baith her han‘s, an‘ solemn sware,

To dine wi‘ gentle folk nae mair.



Puir Scotland‘s scaith is whisky rife,

The very king o‘ curses;

Breeds ilka ill, care, trouble, strife,

Ruins health and empties purses.

It fills a peaceful land wi‘ strife,

The ale house fills wi‘ roarin‘;

It fills wi‘ broils domestic life,

An‘ fills the kirk wi‘ snoarin‘.

’Twas on a bonny morn in May,

Twa three chiels did forgather,

The night before they’d gane astray,

And were a’ drunk thegither;

Wi’ pain their pows were like to part,

Their very tongues did russel;

Wi’ shilpit look and shiverin heart,

And throats as dry’s a whussel.