Luath

Trowth, Caesar, whyles they’re fash’d eneugh; A cottar howkin’ in a sheugh, Wi’ dirty stanes biggin’ a dyke, Baring a quarry, and sic like; Himsel’, a wife, he thus sustains, A smytrie o’ wee duddy weans, And nought but his han’-darg to keep Them right and tight in thack and rape. And when they meet wi’ sair disasters, Like loss o’ health, or want o’ masters, Ye maist wad think, a wee touch langer And they maun starve o’ cauld and hunger; But how it comes I never kent yet, They’re maistly wonderfu’ contented; An’ buirdly chiels and clever hizzies Are bred in sic a way as this is.