by: Caie, J.M.
A puddock sat by the lochan’s brim,
An he thocht there was never a puddock like him.
He sat on his hurdies, he waggled his legs,
An cockit his heid as he glowered throu the seggs.
The bigsy wee cratur was feelin that prood
He gapit his mou an he croakit oot lood:
“Gin ye’d aa like tae see a richt puddock,” quo he,
“Ye’ll never, I’ll sweer, get a better nor me.
I’ve femlies an wives an a weel-plenished hame,
Wi drink for my thrapple an meat for ma wame.
The lasses aye thocht me a fine strappin chiel,
An I ken I’m a rale bonny singer as weel.
I’m nae gaun tae blaw, but the truth I maun tell —
I believe I’m the verra MacPuddock himsel.”
A heron was hungry an needin tae sup,
Sae he nabbit the puddock an golIup’t him up;
Syne runkled his feathers: “A peer thing,” quo he,
“But puddocks is nae fat they eesed tae be.”