THE MUCKLE MOU’

When ye are auld an’ pitten past, Ye’ll whiles be sittin’ wi’ a freen’ And crackin’, as ye hear the blast Rage i’ the lum, o’ fowk ye’ve seen. There’s some gangs whingein’,[18] singin’ sma’, An’ some that taks a baulder tune, But ae thing’s aye the same wi’ a’— Their mou’s owre muckle for their spune. Ye’ll see a lad—his hoose the best, A thrivin’ swine in till his yaird, His gairden fu’—he winna rest, He’s wud because he’s no a laird! He coorts a lass; she’ll tak’ her aith He isna fit to dicht her shune, What’s wrang wi’ ane is wrang wi’ baith— Their mou’s owre muckle for their spune. O’ tinkler-fowk, an’ fowk wi’ means Ye’ll scarcely hae the time to speak, Men, wives an’ widdies, lords an’ weans, The mair they get, the mair they’ll seek. Ye’d think the vera warld was deav’d Wi’ them that’s roarin’ for the mune, Nae maitter what they’ve a’ receiv’d Their mou’s owre muckle for their spune. But when ye’ve lookit mony a year Upon yersel’ and ither men, Although to lairn ye’ve whiles been sweir, There’s twa-three things ye’re like to ken; Ye winna need to mak’ ado An’ warstle wi’ the powers abune, Yer spune’s the measure o’ yer mou’, Gin ane is wrang, it’s no the spune!