  On travelling down Tweed side, I heard an uncouth chit chat; An old wife thus her neighbour did chide, May curses confound your cat! His plunder I’ll tell you pit pat, Our hut he inhabits at ease; He broke into our buffet, And munch’d up our ewe-milk cheese. He lifts up our larder latch, And he skims all the cream off the milk; The callans he’ll bite and he’ll scratch, And the brats of their boiley will bilk. No farley to find him so fat, Beef, bacon, and butter, he eats; And ne’er hunts for a mouse nor a rat, But sups upon savory meats. He has lunch’d up two large lamb legs, Of our bannocks he’s not left a bit; And has scar’d the old hen off her eggs, And she’s drown’d in the kirn-milk kit. He mucks in our mickle meal-chest, He spews in the cistern of salt; In our kale-pot and cogies he’s piss’d, And he mutes too among the malt. He has drove a scate fish off the bink, Which drop’d in the brimstone kan, And rais’d such a stove and stink As chok’d our old good man. Was it no more damage than that, The brute must be greatly to blame; If you take not care of your tom-cat, He may rely on a lame! |
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