The Poetical Works of Robert Anderson

A toilsome leyfe, for thurty years,
I patiently hev spent,
As onie yen o' onie rank,
I this weyde warl e'er kent;
For when at heame, or when away,
Nae peace ther is for me;
I's pestert wid an ill-gien weyfe,
That niver lets me be:
Ay teazin, ne'er ceasin,
Leyke an angry sea;
Nae kurk-bell e'er hed sec a tongue,
And oft it deefens me!

When furst I saw her mealy feace,
'Twas painted up sae feyne,
I thowt her e'en fit for a queen—
She wan this heart o' meyne;

154

But sin' that hour, that sworry hour,
We ne'er cud yence agree;
And oft I curse the luckless day
I pawn'd my liberty:
Care an sorrow, then to morrow
Ay the seame mun be;
Oh! had I coffin'd been, that day
I lost my liberty!

When young, I wish'd for weyfe and weeans,
But now the thowt I scworn;
Thank Heav'n, a bairn o' owther sex
To me she ne'er has bworn!
Leyke fuils we wish our youth away,
When happy we mud be—
Aw ye whee're pleagued wi' scauldin weyves,
I wish ye suin set free!
Grin, grinnin!—din, dinnin!
Toil and misery!
Better feed the kurk-yard wurms,
Than leeve sec slaves as we!

I's past aw wark, it's hard to want,
An auld and peer am I;
But happiness i' this veyle warl,
Nae gear cud iver buy:

155

O wer I on some owre sea land,
Nae women nar to see,
At preyde an grander I wad smeyle,
An thanks to Heav'n wad gie:
O woman! foe to man!
A blessin thou sud be;
But wae to him that wears thy chain,
Peer wretch unblest leyke me!

When wintry blasts blow loud an keen,
I's fain to slink frae heame;
An rader feace the angry storm,
Than hur I hate to neame:
Wheyle she wi' sland'rous cronies met,
Sit's hatchin monie a lee;
The seet wad flay auld Nick away,
Or vex a saint to see,
Puff, puffin!—snuff, snuffin!
Ne'er frae mischief free;
How waak is lwordly boastin man,
On sec to cast an ee!

If to a neybor's house I steal,
To crack a wheyle at neet,
She hurries ti' me leyke a deil,
An flays the fwok to see't;

156

Whate'er I dui, whate'er I say,
Wi' hur a faut mun be;
I freet an freet baith neet an day,
But seldom clwose an ee:
Wake, wakin!—shak, shakin!
Then she teks the gee;
He's happy that leevs aw his leane,
Compar d wi' chaps leyke me.

To stop the niver-ceasin storm,
I brong her cousin here;
She aw but brak the wee thing's heart,
An cost her monie a tear:
If chance a frien pops in his heed,
Off to the duir she'll flee;
She snarls leyke onie angry cat,
An sair I's vex'd to see!
Now fratchin, neist scratchin,
Oft wi' bleaken'd ee,
I pray auld Nick hed sec a deame,
I trow he vex'd wad be!

How blithe man meets the keenest ills,
I' this shwort voyage o' leyfe,
And thinks nae palace leyke his heame,
Blest wid a keyndly weyfe:

157

But sure the greatest curse hard fate
To onie man can gie,
Is sec a filthy slut as meyne,
That ne'er yence comforts me;
Lads jeerin, lasses sneerin,
Cuckold some caw me;
I scrat an auld grey achin pow,
But darn't say they lee.

They're happy that hev teydey weyves,
To keep peer bodies clean;
But meyne's a freetfu' lump o' filth,
Her marra ne'er was seen:
Ilk dud she wears upon her back,
Is poison to the ee;
Her smock's leyke auld Nick's nuttin bag,
The deil a word I lee:
Dour an' durty—house aw clarty!
See her set at tea,
Her feace defies baith seape an san,
To mek't just fit to see!

A beyte o' meat I munnet eat,
Seave what I cuik mysel;
Ae patch or clout she'll nit stick on,
Sae heame's just leyke a hell:

158

By day or neet, if out o' seet.
Seafe frae this canker'd she,
I pray and pray, wi' aw my heart,
Deeth, suin tek hur or me!
Fleyte, fleytin!—feght, feghtin!
How her luik I dree!
Come tyrant rid me o' this curse,
Dui tek her! I'll thank thee!

University of Virginia Library

THE ILL-GIEN WEYFE, AN OWRE TRUE PICTURE O' MONIE.