O wife! I wad fain see our Sukey dui reet,
But she's out wi' the fellows, aye neet efter neet,
Them that's fash'd wi' nae bairns iver happy mun be,
For we've yen, and she's maister o' baith thee & me.

I can't for the life o' me get her to wark,
Nor aw the lang Sunday to ga near a kurk,
Nor frae week en to week en a chapter to read,
For the Bible ligs stoury abuin the duir head.

She yence cud ha'e scrammel'd and writ her awn neame,
And, Sunday and warday, was teydey at heame
Now, to see her whol'd stockins, her brat and her gown,
She's a shem and a byzen to aw the heale town.

O wad she be guided, and stick till her wheel,
There's nin kens how fain I wad see her dui weel;
For she's thy varra picture, and aw that we have,
But thur neets' warks 'll bring my grey hairs to the grave.

'Twas nobbet last week, in a passion I flew,
And gev her a trounce--bur sair did I rue;
Then I bid her e'en pack up her duds, and we'd part,
For to streyke my ain bairn it just breks my auld heart.

There's that ill Calep Crosby, he's never away,
He's gleymin and watchin her beath neet and day;
Sud he come in my clutches a ken--guid he's get,
For, tho' auld, leame, and feeble, I'll maister him yet

I'll away owre to Whitten a press--gang to seek,
And they's lig him in irons, ay this varra week;
On his back he may tie her, a donnet is she,
And sha'not be maister o' beath thee and me!