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!