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THE MUTCHES, by                    
First Line: I'm just like ither decent men, nae better nor nae waur, o
Last Line: "o."
Subject(s): Man-woman Relationships; Male-female Relations


I'M just like ither decent men, nae better nor nae waur, O,
An' a' I hae, an' a' I ken, is no eneuch by far, O;
But what o' that, I'm just a man, a mortal fu' o' fail, O,
Sae bear wi' me noo gin ye can a' I'se tell ye a tale, O.

Weel ken ye freens I like a dram o' Hielan' mountain dew, O,
I mak' nae mou's, I winna sham, it aften mak's me fu', O;
Daft things I do an' say, I'm tauld, whan it begins to rule, O,
I haver like a fishwife auld, an' blether like a fule, O.

I dauner'd oot the ither nicht against my wifie's will, O,
Wha vowed that she'd pit oot the licht upon the chap o' twel', O.
She sulk'd and gloom'd, but nocht I saw, save fancied crony-joy, O.
"Guidwife! I'll no be lang awa', it's just a freenly ploy, O."

A social hour aye swiftly gangs whan whisky weets its wings, O --
A crack, a dram, weel mixed wi' sangs, the pairtin' moment brings, O;
The lang hour rang gey strange that nicht, the whisky was aboon, O,
My feet wad ne'er stap oot aricht, my heid aye wanted doon, O.

Hoo aft I coup'd, hoo aft I fell, or duntit ilka wa', O,
Is mair than ony tongue can tell, yet I gat hame for a', O.
I aff my shoon whan at the door, my wifie was asleep, O,
Sae cannily I owre the floor upon my fours did creep, O.

The licht was oot, an' a' was dark, the fire was deein' wan, O,
I steer'd it up an' by its spark I saw a wee bit pan, O;
"What's this! what's this, she's cook'd for me? I left her dour an' angry, O -
-
For love she can my fauts forgie, she kent I wad be hungry, O!"

My gizzen'd lips I aft did wipe, I blest my happy fate, O,
By a' that's gude! 'twas tender tripe, an' sune the haill I ate, O;
Wi' thankfu' heart I gaed to bed, my thochtfu' wife I blest, O,
She wadna speak nor turn her heid, sae ae saft han' I kiss'd, O.

I wauken'd late, I wauken'd pain'd, I wauken'd like to dee, O,
My wife was up, an' as I maen'd she lauch'd wi' muckle glee, O;
"Guidwife! fareweel! I'm dune! I'm dune! I'm noo in Satan's clutches, O!"
"Ha! ha!" quoth she, "It serves ye richt! -- ye've ate my linen mutches,
O."





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