The Patriach

AS honest Jacob on a night,
Wi’ his beloved beauty,
Was duly laid on wedlock’s bed,
And noddin’ at his duty:
Tal de dal, &c.

“How lang, she says, ye fumblin’ wretch,
Will ye be fucking at it?
My eldest wean might die of age,
Before that ye could get it.

Ye pegh, and grane, and groazle there,
And mak an unco splutter,
And I maun ly and thole you here,
And fient a hair the better.”

The he, in wrath, put up his graith,
“The deevil ‘s in the hizzie!
I mow you as I mow the lave,
And night and day I’m bisy.

I’ve bairn’d the servant gypsies baith,
Forbye your titty Leah;
Ye barren jad, ye put me mad,
What mair can I do wi’ you.

There ‘s ne’er a mow I’ve gi’en the lave,
But ye ha’e got a dizzen;
And damn’d a ane ye ’se get again,
Altho’ your cunt should gizzen.”

The Rachel calm, as ony lamb,
She claps him on the waulies,
Quo’ she, “ne’er fash a woman’s clash,
In trowth, ye mow me braulies.

My dear ‘tis true, for mony a mow,
I’m your ungratefu’ debtor;
But ance again, I dinna ken,
We’ll aiblens happen better.”

Then honest man! Wi’ little wark,
He soon forgat his ire;
The patriarch, he coost the sark,
And up and till ‘t like fire!!!