If tempers were put up to seale,
Our Jwohn's wad bear a duced preyce;
He vow'd 'twas barley i' the broth,--
Upon my word, says I, it's reyce.

''I mek nea faut,'' our Jwohnny says,
''The broth is guid and varra neyce;
I only say--it's barley broth.''
Tou says what's wrang, says I, it's reyce.

''Did ever mortal hear the leyke!
As if I hadn't sense to tell!
Tou may think reyce the better thing,
But barley broth dis just as well.''

''And sae it mud, if it was there;
The deil a grain is i' the pot;
But tou mun ayways threep yen down,--
I've drawn the deevil of a lot!''

''And what's the lot that I have drawn?
Pervarsion is a woman's neame!
Sae fares--te--weel! I'll sarve my king,
And never, never mair come heame.''

Now Jenny frets frae mworn to neet;
The Sunday cap's nae langer neyce;
She aye puts barley i' the broth,
And hates the varra neame o' reyce.

Thus treyfles vex, and treyfles please,
And treyfles mek the sum o' leyfe;
And treyfles mek a bonny lass
A wretched or a happy weyfe!