An’ now fowks use me at their wills, My name is blawn out o’er the hills, At banquets, feasts, a’ mouths it fills, ’Twixt each, _Here’s t’ thee_, ’Tis sore traduc’d at kilns and mills, And common smithy. Then, Dominies, I you beseech, Keep very far from Bacchus’ reach, He drown’d a’ my cares to preach, Wi’ his ma’t-bree, I’ve wore sair banes by mony a bleech O’ his tap-tree. If venus does possess your mind, Her antics ten times warse ye’ll find, For to ill tricks she’s sae inclin’d, For praticks past, She blew me here before the wind: Cauld be her cast. Within years less than half a dizen, She made poor Maggy lie in jizen, When little Jock brake out of prison On gude yule-day, This of my quiet cut the wisen, Whan he wan gae. Let readers then tak better heed, For fear they kiss mair than they read, In case they wear the sacken weed, For fornication, Or leave the priest-craft shot to dead For procreation. The maist o’ them, like blind an’ lame, Have nae aversion to the game, But better ’twere to tak her hame, Their pot to cook, An’ teach his boys to write a theme, And mind their book. Then may they sit at hame, an’ please, Themselves wi’ gathering in their fees, While I must face mine enemies, Or shaw my dock: There’s odds ’twixt handling pens wi’ ease An’ a firelock. Sae shall they never mount the stool, Whereon the lasses greet an’ howl, Tho’ deil a tear, scarce fair or foul, Comes o’er their cheeks; Their mind’s not there, ’tis spinning wool, Or mending breeks. The Kirk then pardons no such prots, They must tell down good five pounds scots, Though they should pledge their petticoats, An’ gae arse bare; The least price there is twenty groats, An’ prigging fair. If then the lad does not her wed, Poor Meg some feigned tears maun shed, Her minny crooks her mou’ and dad, They fart an’ fling; “O wow that e’er I made the bed,” Then does she sing. _Thus for her Maidenhead she moans, Bewailing what is past; Her pitcher’s dash’d against the stones, And broken at the last._ PART II.