Come hame to your lingels

Come hame to your lingels, ye ne'er-do-weel loon,

You're the king o' the dyvours, the talk o' the town,

Sae soon as the Munonday morning comes in,

Your wearifu' daidling again maun begin.

Gudewife, you're a skillet, your tongue's just a bell,

To the peace o' gude fallows it rings the death-knell,

But clack till ye deafen auld Barnaby's mill,

The souter shall aye ha'e his Munonday's yill.

Come hame to your lap-stane, come hame to your last,

It's a bonnie affair that your family maun fast,

While you and your crew here a-guzzling maun sit,

Ye daised drunken gude-for-nocht heir of the pit,

Just leuk, how I'm gaun without stocking or shoe,

Your baims a' in tatters, an' fotherless too,

An' yet, quite content, like a sot, ye'll sit still,

Till your kyte's like to crack, wi' your Munonday's yill.

I tell you, gudewife, gin you haud na your clack,

I'll lend you a reestle wi' this owre your back;

Maun we be abused an' affronted by you,

Wi' siccan fool names as "loon," "dyvour," an' "crew?"

Come hame to your lingels, this instant come hame,

Or I'll redden your face, gin ye've yet ony shame,

For I'll bring a' the bairns, an' we'll just ha'e our fill,

As weel as yoursel', o' your Munonday's yill.

Gin that be the gate o't, sirs, come, let us stir,

What need we sit here to be pestered by her?

For she'll plague an' affront us as far as she can;

Did ever a woman sae bother a man?

Frae yill house to yill house she'll after us rin,

An' raise the hale town wi' her yelpin' and din;

Come, ca' the gudewife, bid her bring in her bill,

I see I maun quat takin' Munonday's yill.