Classic Poem

I.

Gie me my gaud, my guid auld gaud —
The wan' I lo'e sae rarely;
But faith, guidwife, it's unco thraw'd,
Ye hae na used it fairly.

II.

The bairns! plague tak the thievin' things!
They play the verra deevil;
Wha'd think they've hashed my lav'rock wings,
An' ta'en my mennin sweevil?

III.

They've made sair wark amang the flees,
There's neither huik nor hackle;
What's a' the guid o' brew or breeze
An' no ane skein o' tackle?

IV.

But, hinny, whar's my muckle reel?
Gie up yer cloots and needle —
I wadna lose my honest wheel
For a' the wives in Tweeddale.

V.

No to the fore! I micht hae guess'd
Some ill or ither cam o't;
It's gane the gate o' a' the rest,
An' nane to bear the blame o't.

VI.

Aweel! aweel! mishaps we ken
Are coupled aye thegither;
But, guidwife, rax us yonner hen,
She's dainty in the feather.

VII.

A mawkin lug and tinsey braw,
Ben in the kist ye'll find them,
Auld reel and tippets — airns an' a' —
The airns, be shure an' mind them!

VIII.

It gangs awee agen the grain
To bear sae mony troubles;
An' yet, guidwife, to ilka ane
There's graith amang the stubbles.

IX.

It's neither dole nor deep lament
Will mend a body's grievance;
Sae e'en we'll haud oursels content
Wi' thae wee bits o' leevins;

X.

An' gin a sawmon soom the Tweed
(The thing's no that unchancy,)
We'll gar the ilka tooth o't bleed,
May fortune fa' the fancy!