Fine Div I Ken What Ails Yon Puddock, Janet, That Aince Would Hae Her Neb Set Up Sae Hie; There'S Them That Disna' Seem To Understan' It, I'Se Warrant Ye It's Plain Eneuch To Me! Maybe Ye'll Mind Her Man - A Fine Wee Cratur, Owre Blate To Speak (Puir Thing, He Didna' Daur); What Gar'D Him Fecht Was Jist His Douce-Like Natur'; Gairmans Is Bad, But Janet'S Tongue Was Waur. But Noo He's Hame Again, Ye Wadna Ken Her, He Isna' Feared To Contradic' Her Flat; He Smokes A' Day, Comes Late To Get His Denner, (I Mind The Time She'd Sort Him Weel For That!) What's Gar'D Her Turn An' Tak' A Road Divairgint? Ye Think SHe's Wae[1] Because He Wants A Limb? Ach! Haud Yer Tongue, Ye Fule - The Man'S A Sairgint, An' There'S Nae Argy-Bargyin' Wi' Him!