The Indian Farmer at Home

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?