THE TRAMP TO THE TATTIE-DULIE

Thrawn-leggit carle wi’ airms on hie And jist a hole for ilka ee, Ye needna lift yer hand to me As though ye’d strike me; Ye’re threits abune an’ strae below, But what-like use is sic a show? Ye maun respec’ me, bogle, tho’ Ye mauna like me! To gutsy doo or thievin’ craw Ye mebbe represent the law When they come fleein’ owre the wa’ To tak’ an airin’, Dod, I’ll no say they arena richt When sic a fell, unchancy sicht Gars them think twice afore they licht— But I’m no carin’! Yer heid’s a neep,[1] yer wame’s[2] a sack, Yer ill-faured face gars bairnies shak’, But yet the likes o’ you can mak’ A livin’ frae it; Sma’ use to me! It isna fair For though there’s mony wad declare That I’m no far ahint ye there, I canna dae it! Life’s a disgust wi’ a’ its ways, For free o’ chairge ye get yer claes, Nae luck hae I on washin’-days— There’s plenty dryin’, But gin I see a usefu’ sark An’ bide or gloamin’ help my wark, The guidwife’s oot afore it’s dark— And leaves nane lyin’. Weel, weel, I’m aff. It’s little pleasure To see ye standin’ at yer leisure When I’ve sae mony miles to measure To get a meal! Ye idle dog! My bonnet’s through, An’ yours is no exac’ly new, But a’ the same I’ll hae’t frae you, And faur-ye-weel!