What was I to dae?  I was at my wits’ en’,
For Tibbie the howdie was fou,
An’ e’en had I got her to traivel the road
What use was she mair than the soo? 
I was switin’ wi’ fear though my fingers was cauld,
An’ my taes they were muckle the same;
Man, my feet was that sair I was creepin’ twa-fauld
That nicht that the bairnie cam’ hame.

Three hoors an’ a hauf sin’ I startit awa’,
An Deil faurer forrit was I! 
Govy-ding!  It’s nae mows for the heid o’ the hoose
When the mistress has yokit to cry! 
A set o’ mis-chanters like what I’d come through
The strongest o’ spirits would tame,
I was ettlin’ to greet as I stude in the street
That nicht that the bairnie cam’ hame!

But a voice that I kent soondit richt in my lug,
Frae my he’rt it fair lifted a load
As I tells him my story, for wha should he be
But the factor’s son hame frae abroad. 
“It’s a brute of a night, but to doctor’s my trade,
If ye’ll have me, my laddie, I’m game!”
An’ he druve his ain trap seeven mile through the snaw
That nicht that the bairnie cam’ hame.

Ay! an’ cracked like a pen-gun the hail o’ the road
An’ though I was prooder than ask,
When he fand I was grewsin’ awa’ at his side
He filled me near fou frae his flask. 
Syne when a’ thing was owre an’ I gruppit his han’
Says the wife, “We maun gie him the name!”
An’ there’s aye been a gude word for him i’ the hoose
Sin’ the nicht that the bairnie cam’ hame.

HUMAN NATUR’.

As I gang roon’ the kintra-side
Amang the young an’ auld,
I marvel at the things I see
An’ a’ the lees I’m tauld. 
There’s Mistress-weel, I winna say: 
I wadna hurt her pride,-
But speerits hae a guff, gude-wife,
Nae peppermints can hide.

Then there’s the carle I said maun bide
In bed or I cam’ back,
An’ frae the road I saw him fine
Gang dodgin’ roond a stack;
I heard him pechin’ up the stair
As I cam’ in the door-
But Faith!  My lad was in his bed
An’ ettlin’ for to snore.

An’ here’s a chap that needs a peel,
He chaws it roon’ an’ roon’,
He’s narra’ i’ the swalla’, an’
He canna get it doon. 
Yet whiles his swalla’s wide eneuch,
The muckle ne’er-dae-weel,
Gin it had aye been narra’er
He hadna nott the peel.

Ye tend them a’, baith great an’ sma’,
Frae cradle to the grave,
An’ add to sorrows o’ your ain
The tribbles o’ the lave,
An’ yet ye find they’re a’ the same,
When human natur’s watched,
It’s no’ ill deeds they haud as wrang-
The sin o’t ’s when they’re catched.

ANG-BANG-PANG.

O hae ye heard the latest news
O’ Mistress Mucklewame? 
Her doctor hadna pickit up
Her trouble here at hame,
Sae they took her tae a speeshalist
To fin’ oot what was wrang,
An’ it seems noo a’ the bother
Has been ang-bang-pang.