Jacob, Violet
The warld's aboot the queerest place --
Ye couldna just say foo tae tak it --
And queer the fowk o' human race
Mak it.
Ye'll hae a plack for them that beg,
Ye'll lift a lame dog owre the stiles,
He'll roond an' hae ye by the leg
Whiles.
Ye'll dae yer best -- ye can nae mair --
Ill-gittit fowk will hae ye huntit
And niver lowse until ye're fair
Affrontit.
And whiles I've thocht 'I winna wait
Tae gie them back as guid's they gie,'
But a' the same I didna dae't --
No me!
The women's tongues, baith loud an' saft,
Bring oot the thrawness o' their naturs,
But fine I see they're nocht but daft,
Puir craturs.
Lord! I hae wished Eliza dumb,
Her ragin' was that strang and stoot;
Yet, at her kistin', I was some
Pit oot.
The mair ye gie the less ye'll get,
The road's aye reuch, whaure'er ye strike it,
The warld's a heap o' durt -- an' yet
Ye like it.