Nae as muckle’s a fitscraper
Nee as muckle’s a braisse bawbee
Did Aunt Margity pairt wi.
An ye canna come richt oot ’n speir
Wi the corp nae cauld.
Bit dam’t, I wis sweir
Tae leave yon bottle o Dimple
Wi gaed Uncle John last New Year
An him twa-fauld wi the flu
We’d jist be claimin wir ain
Gin we socht it, widn’t we noo?

“The pooch o a shroud’s gey teem”
Said Dougal an me.
“Ay, bit I’m nae the body that’s weirin it”
Back cracks she.

“John promised tae leave me a keepsake”,
Quo Teenie frae Brighton.
“Ah weel,” sez the widda,
“Ye’ll hae’t … gin he’s pit it in writin.”

“Yon clock on the mantle
Belanged tae great granfaither Sim”
Quo Bunty an Bert.
“I thocht that it made a guid price
Fin I selt it,”. Said Aunty rale smert

Gin ye hear a reeshle like leaves on the windae pane
It’s anely Aunt Margity, coontin her siller her lane.
She sleeps on a bunnle o fivers, as cosy’s a tup
An pyes her ain cockerel, at daybrakk, tae wauken her up.
She haives 50ps at the fleas fin they bizz roon her heid
Shews a hunner poun patch on a swatch o her trews wi a threid.
She’s a necklace o tippences strung like a fence roon her thrapple
An as muckle ten pences at hame as wad beery a Chapel.