KIRSTY'S OPINION

Fine div I ken what ails yon puddock, Janet,

That aince would hae her neb set up sae hie;

There's them that disna’ seem to understan’ it,

I'se warrant ye it's plain eneuch to me!

Maybe ye'll mind her man — a fine wee cratur,

Owre blate to speak ( puir thing, he didna’ daur );

What gar'd him fecht was jist his douce-like natur’;

Gairmans is bad, but Janet's tongue was waur.

But noo he's hame again, ye wadna ken her,

He isna’ feared to contradic’ her flat;

He smokes a’ day, comes late to get his denner,

( I mind the time she'd sort him weel for that! )

What's gar'd her turn an’ tak’ a road divairgint?

Ye think she's waebecause he wants a limb?

Ach! haud yer tongue, ye fule — the man's a sairgint,

An’ there's nae argy-bargyin’ wi’ him!