Is wee Jamie waukin' yet?
Lyin' unco lang;
Better cuddlin' in his bed
When his mammy's thrang.
Here he's comin' ow'r the stock,
Warstlin' a' his lane;
Toddle forrit to the fire,
Mammy's sturdy wean.
What a fire to mak' him glower,
An' rub his een sae bauld;
Sic a fire was never seen
For a bairn that's cauld.
Here are buities, pit them on,
For fear a coal micht spark;
Bell, ye muckle idle thing,
Dinna lift his sark.
Fetch his poshie an' his milk,
Set them on the chair;
What a bowlfu' for a wean!
An' nane to get a share.
Dinna skail them, like a man,
But sup them snodly oot;
Then mak' Johnnie your wee horse,
To pu' your cairt aboot.
Keep us! what a hurry noo,
Doon he flings the spune;
Is his wee bit kitey fou'?
Let his mammy fin'.
There, noo, get his cairt; but stop,
Sic a face as that
Wad mak' oor neebor's doggie bark,
An' fricht the verra cat.
I hear him half-way up the yaird,
Cryin' 'Wo' an' 'Hup;'
But, mercy! what a squeel frae Jock:
The plague has used the whup.
I fling the dish-cloot frae my han'
An' hurry oot tae see:
Just as I thocht; thae bairns that strike,
They fairly puzzle me.