By Violet Jacob
Fine div I ken what ails yon puddock, Janet,
That aince would hae her neb set up sae hie;
There’s them that disna’ seem to understan’ it,
I’se warrant ye it’s plain eneuch to me!
What’s gar’d her turn an’ tak’ a road divairgint?
Ye think she’s wae because he wants a limb?
Ach! haud yer tongue, ye fule – the man’s a sairgint,
An’ there’s nae argy-bargyin’ wi’ him!