O a' the ills that come to swall a wearit mither's grief,
The warst is when her laddie winna tak' his senna leaf;
An' here I've stood this ae half-hour, the berries in the spune,
An' yet he winna drink it up to get them when it's dune.
Plague tak' his faither, wha boo'd say sae thochtfu' unto me—
'Get oot the ither teapot, Bell, an' gie the wean some tea.'
The rogue heard (for he's gleg's a hawk), an' noo he tak's his han's,
An' pushes back the bowl, an' shiles, an' kicks the table ban's.
I dinna ken what plan to tak' to mak' him swallow this,
For if I tell him that he'll dee, he kensna what it is,
An' big Daft Jock, wha slings aboot an' fears the village weans,
Has nae poo'r ow'r this rogue o' mine, wha lauchs at a' my pains.
Weel, weel, my man; your faither comes to tak' his sowp at twae,
An' if I tell him a' the truth, what think ye will he say?
He winna lick his bairn, I ken—he maistly tak's his pairt—
But he'll tell the joiner no to heed to mak' his braw new cairt.
Losh, hae I hit the nail at last? He turns aboot his heid,
An' raxes oot his han' in haste to dae the awfu' deed;
Three mouthfu's tak's the senna oot, anither cleans the spoon,
Twa thraws or three o' his bit mou', an' that sair task is dune.
I canna think but Clootie stan's the very same as me,
An' coaxes bigger weans to come and taste his hell-brewn tea;
Wha, when they tak' a sowp, an' fin' he has them in his poo'r,
They own the tea was unco sweet, the berries awfu' soor.