She'd a lip wi' a mowser,
Balmennie's wife Nell,
Wi' a tongue that gaed clack,
Like the haimmers o' Hell.
A pirn-taed, obstreperous deem,
Wi' her dander sae easy caad up,
Like the stoor frae a breem,
An her grumphin an girnin
As sherp as the stob o' a preen.
She wisna a belle,
Far frae it, a clort o' a quine,
Wi jist the ae suitor, Balmennie himsel,
Bit she suited him fine.

“For certes,” quo he, “beauty bides bit a day
Afore that ye ken it, ye'r auld, an ye'r gray
Nell rises wi' me, taks her turn i' the byre
Syne redds up the kitchie, an kinnles the fire
Na — Venus is bonnie, bit fickle an fykey,
She'd niver consent tae be filin her nightie
B' herdin the nowt i' the park.”
An here, he aye paused, wi' a lauch, an a lear
(Bit whispered it saftly, lest Nellie cud hear)
“Ye'll ken the auld spik?” (An afore ye cud speir)

“It's as sure as the birk tree is biggit wi bark
 It's bin true sin' the day they walked ooto the ark
 Be they plain as a spurgie, or lissom's a lark
 There's nae muckle odds, fin they're happit bi dark”