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?