IN antient tales there is a story
Of ane had twa wives, Whig and Tory.
The carlie's head was now attir'd
With hair, in equal mixture, lyart.
His wives (faith an might well suffic'd)
Alternately was ay ill pleas'd.
They being reverse to ane another
In age and faith, made a curs'd pother
Whilk of the twa shou'd bear the bell
And make their man maist like themsell.
Auld Meg, the Tory, took great care,
To weed out ilka sable hair,
Plucking out all that look'd like youth,
Frae crown of head to weeks of mouth,
Saying that baith in head and face
Antiquity was mark of grace.
But Bess, the Whig, a raving rump,
Took figmaliries and wald jump,
With sword and pistol by her side,
And cock-a-stride arowing ride
On the hag-riden sumph, and grapple
Him hard and fast about the thraple
And with her furious fingers whirle
Frae youthfu' black ilk silver curle.
Thus was he serv'd between the twa,
'Till no ae hair he had ava.
MORAL
THE moral of this fable's easy,
But I sall speak it out to please ye.
'Tis an auld saying and a trow,
Between twa stools the arse fa's throw.
Thus Britain's morals are much plucked,
While by two opposites instructed:
Who still contending have the trick
The strongest truths to contradict.
Tho' orthodox, they'll error make it,
If party opposite has spake it.
Thus are we keytch'd between the twa,
Like to turn deists, ane and a'.
In antient tales thare is a story
Of ane haed twa wives, Whig an Tory.
The carlie's heid wes noo attyairt
Wi hair, in aqual mixtur, lyairt.
His wives (faith ane micht weel suffeeced)
Alternately wes aye ill pleised.
Thay bein reverse til ane anither
In age an faith, made a cursed pither
Whilk o the twa shoud beir the bell
An mek thair man maist like thaimsel.
Auld Meg, the Tory, teuk gret care
Ti weed oot ilka sable hair,
Pookin oot aw that leuked like youth,
Frae croon o heid tae weeks o mooth,
Sayin that baith in heid an face
Antiquity wes merk o grace.
But Bess, the Whig, a ravin rump,
Teuk figmaliries an wald jump,
Wi swird an pistol bi her side,
An cock-a-stride arowin ride
On the hag-ridden sumph, an grapple
Him hard an fast aboot the thrapple
An wi her furious fingers whirl
Frae youthfu black ilk siller curl.
Thus wes he sert atween the twa,
Till no ae hair he haed ava.
MORAL
THE moral o this fable's easy,
But Ah sal spek it oot ti pleise ye.
'Tis an auld sayin an a trowe,
Atween twa stuils the airse fas throwe.
Thus Britain's morals err much pookit,
While by twa opposeets instruckit:
Wha still contendin have the trick
The strangest troths ti kinterdick.
Tho orthodox, thay'll error mek it,
Yif pairty opposeet haes spek it.
Thus err we keytched atween the twa,
Like ti turn deists, ane an aw.