The Poetry Corner

Kirsty's Opinion

By Violet Jacob

Fine div I ken what ails yon puddock, Janet, That aince would hae her neb set up sae hie; There's them that disna' seem to understan' it, I'se warrant ye it's plain eneuch to me! Maybe ye'll mind her man - a fine wee cratur, Owre blate to speak (puir thing, he didna' daur); What gar'd him fecht was jist his douce-like natur'; Gairmans is bad, but Janet's tongue was waur. But noo he's hame again, ye wadna ken her, He isna' feared to contradic' her flat; He smokes a' day, comes late to get his denner, (I mind the time she'd sort him weel for that!) What's gar'd her turn an' tak' a road divairgint? Ye think she's wae[1] because he wants a limb? Ach! haud yer tongue, ye fule - the man's a sairgint, An' there's nae argy-bargyin' wi' him!