Hoots! toots! ayont, ahint, afore,
The bleth'rin' blast may blathe an blaw
An' shak' my dhoti;
But I am canty, crouse, and full,
An' aiblins at my pipe I pull,
Safe in my khoti.
I bang the gudewife wi' my loof,
And shak' the dung-cakes fra' the roof
To feed the low;
An' gin my dinner crowds my pét
My wee bit bairnies stamp it straight
Wi' joyous crow.
What mair, I ask, could man desire
Beyont his bit of bread an' fire,
An' safe inves'ment
O' bawbees in a silver chain
To guard against a day of rain
Or raised assessments?