He winna sup his poshie, the buffy, curly loon,
But spurs and spurtles on my knee, an' quarrels for the spoon,
Rubbin' till his een grow red, and than anither yell;
Oh, an awfu' plague's that laddie wha wants to sup himsel'.
See hoo he dauds the spoon away, as wud as wud can be,
Scalin' a' the sowp, an' lebbrin' baith himsel' an' me;
Pushin' against the table wi' his wee shanks firm an' stieve,
Tryin' to sup wi' perfect spite his parritch wi' his nieve!
Weel, weel, be quate, for ony sake, I'll draw your wee chair in,
An' tie ye to the back, an' pit a cloot aneath your chin,
Gie ye the spoon into your han'—ye thrawn, ill-natured tyke!—
An' ye can try an' sup them, or dae wi' them what ye like.
Noo, since he's suppin' a' his lane, as quate as ony mouse,
I'll turn my back an' redd the floor, an' tidy up the house;
For when he toddles up an' doon, he's sic a steerin' lim',
I canna get a han's wark dune for lookin' after him.
Losh me, what awfu' screigh is that? I'll turn me roun' an' see:
He's cowpit ow'r the bowl, an' ramm'd the spoon-shank in his e'e;
Then what a cry for mammy comes, that I maun let alane
What wark I had to dae, an' tak' him on my knee again.
Noo, whisht, my wee, wee mannie, ye've got an awfu' scaur,
But, gin your face an' han's were washed, ye're no a preen the waur;
Noo, whisht, an' kiss your mammy, ye're no sae much to blame,
For mony an aulder ane than you has dune the very same.
Ay, mony a bearded man, atweel, has gane sae far ajee,
That ever after hung his head, nor cared to lift an e'e,
But slunk aboot, an' a' for what I brawly weel can tell:
He grew ow'r croose, an' far ow'r sune began to sup himsel'.