Tay

A cudnae dae wioot ma tay,

Tae stairt me aff maist ivery day,

“A wee drap in yer haun”, the’ say,

Wairm, wat an strang,

Tha thang tae keep tha drouth at bay

Tha hale day lang.

Ma mammie larned me fae a wean

Tae wairm tha pot an no pit tay in,

Tae tha watter’s fairly plumpin, an

Then ye dae it.

“Ye teem tha watter owre tha tay, an

There ye hae it.”

“Them tay-bags irnae guid fur ocht”, ir

“It’s aye tha loose tay we hae bocht”, ir

“Yin spoon fur ivery boadie, dochter,

An yin fur tha pot.

An pit it doon fornent tha fire

Tae keep it hot”.

Noo maist fowk cannae be annoyed.

The’r no parteeclar hoo it’s made

The’ hinnae larned tae tak a pride

In ocht daen richt.

Och, it’s mair nor tay’s haes me dismayed —

(A waesome sicht.)

But nooadays, iz A wus sayin,

A cannae thole tha wye it’s daen.

Yir gien an empie bicker an,

Ye mak yer brew,

Wi pumpie flesk, taybag an spoon,

T’wud gar ye grue.

Tha hale thing is jist quare an reuch,

Thon watter’s niver hot eneuch,

Luks lik it cum strecht fae a sheugh,

Tha brew’s aa gray.

Gin thon’s “gan forrits”! A say ‘Yugh!”

Fur thon’s no tay.