In ilka member, lith an’ lim’, Its mouth, its nose, its cheeks, its chin, ’Tis a’ like daddy, just like him, His very self, Though it look’d cankered sour and grim, Like ony elf. Then whisp’ring now to me she harked, Indeed your hips they should be yarked, Nae mair Mess John, nor dare ye Clarkit, Faith ye hae ca’d Your hogs into a bonny markit, Indeed my lad. But tell me, man, (I should say master,) What muckle deil in your way chas’d her? Lowns baith! but I think I hae plac’d her, Now on her side, My coming here has not disgrac’d her, At the Yule-tide. An’ for yoursell, ye dare na look Hereafter ever on a book, Your mou’ about the psalms to crook; Ye’ve play’d the fool, Anither now your post maun bruik, An’ you the stool. She bann’d her saul, and then she blest it, That in the Kirk-books it would be lifted, An’ thus the weary wife insisted, Our Lettergae Will sit whar he will not be pish’t 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 glacket, Ye ken yoursell. The Session-Clark to play such prankies, Ye’ll stan’ I fear upon your shankies, An’ maybe slaver in the brankies; It could na miss, But lifting o’ the killimankies, Would turn to this. A toothless Howdy, auld and teugh, Says, Cummer husht, we hae eneugh, Thirsh mony ane has touch’d the pleugh, As gude ash he, An’ yetsh gane backlensh o’er the heugh, Shae let him be. Hesh no, quoth she, though he’sh be lear’d, That ye ken what, they hae crept near’t, Far you an I hash aft-times heard O’ nine or ten, Wha thush the clergy hath beshmear’d Wi’ their ain pen. The auld mou’d wives thus did me taunt, Though a’ was true, I must needs grant, But ae thing maistly made me faint, Poor Meg lay still, An’ look’d as loesome as a saint That kend nae ill. Then a’ the giglets young and gaudy, Sware by their sauls, I might be wady, For getting sic a lusty laddy, Sae like mysell; An’ made me blush wi’ speaking baudy, ’Bout what befel.