*The Miller Explains*

The byword "as sweer as the Miller" Disturbs me but little, for hech! Ye'll find for ane willin' to bishop A score sittin' ready to pech. But come to the brose or the bottle, There's few need less priggin' than me; While they're busy blessin' the bannock, I'm raxin' a han' to fa' tee. The neighbours clash lood o' my drinkin', An' naething hits harder than truth; But tales micht be tempered, I'm thinkin', Gin fouk would consider my drooth. Nae doot, at the Widow's displenish Gey aften I emptied the stoup; But thrift is a thing we should cherish, An' whisky's aye free at a roup. Week in an' week oot, when I'm millin', The sids seem to stick in my throat; Nae wonder at markets I'm willin' To spend wi' a crony a groat. An' if I've a shaltie to niffer, Or't maybe some barley to sell, An oonslockened bargain's aye stiffer-- Ye ken that fu' brawly yersel'. Fae forbears my thirst I inherit, As others get red hair or gout; The heirship's expensive: mair merit To me that I never cry out. An' sae, man, I canna help thinkin' The neighbours unkindly; in truth, Afore they can judge o' my drinkin' They first maun consider my drooth.