Poems by Robert Nicoll :: :: University of Virginia Library

There's joy to the lave, but there's sadness to me;
For my gudewife an' I can do a' thing but 'gree:
In but-house an' ben-house, baith outby an' in,
There's never an end o' her flytin' an' din.

She's girnin' at e'enin'—she's girnin' at morn—
A' hours o' the day in my flesh she's a thorn:
At us baith a' the neighbour-folk canna but grin:
There's never an end o' her flytin' an' din.

She scolds at the lasses, she skelps at the bairns;
An' the chairs an' the creepies she flings them in cairns.
I'm joyfu' when aff frae the house I can rin:
There's never an end o' her flytin' an' din.

When I bid her speak laigher, fu' scornfu' she sneers;
Syne she skreighs like a goslin', till a' body hears;

Then I maun sing sma', just to keep a hale skin:
There's never an end o' her flytin' and din.

Ance deaved to the heart by her ill-scrapit tongue,
To quiet her I tried wi' a gude hazel rung:—
Wi' the tangs she repaid me, and thought it nae sin:
There's never an end o' her flytin' an' din.

There's ae thing I ken, an' that canna be twa—
I wish frae this world she ance were awa';
An' I trust, if ayont to the ill place she win,
They'll be able to bear wi' her flytin' an' din.

To the wa' the door rattles—that's her comin' ben;
An' I maun gi'e o'er or the Luckie would ken.
Gude save us! she's clearin' her throat to begin:
The Lord keep ye a' frae sic flytin' an' din!