Against the host o' good things there
They wage an awful battle;
They're crying out, "A lile bit mair!"
An' plates an' glasses rattle.
Here, yan's nae time a word to pass,
Thrang(1) supping an' thrang biting;
There, simpering sits a girt soft lass
That waits for mich inviting
An' fuss that neet.
An' when this good substantial fare
Has gien 'em satisfaction,
They side(2) all t' chairs, an' stand i' pairs,
Wi' heels i' tune for action.
See-sawing, t' fiddler now begins
The best that he is able;
He rosins t' stick an' screws up t' pins
An' jumps up on to t' table,
To play that neet.
There, back an' forrad, in an' out,
His elbow it gaas silting,(3)
An' to an' fro, an' round about,
The dancers they are lilting.
Some dance wi' ease i' splendid style,
Wi' tightly-fitting togs on,
Whal others bump about all t' while,
Like drainers wit their clogs on,
Sae numb'd that neet.
An' when they've reel'd an' danc'd their fling,
Their chairs all round are ranged;
They tell droll tales, they laugh, they sing,
An' jokes are interchanged.
A merry tune t' girt kettle sings,
An' t' fire is blazing breetly ;
Wi' cheerful din t' owd farmhouse rings,
An' hours fly ower them sweetly
An' swift that neet.
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