4 Frae this, lat gentler gabs[21] a lesson lear: Wad they to labouring lend an eident[22]hand, They'd rax fell strang upo' the simplest fare, Nor find their stamacks ever at a stand. Fu' hale an' healthy wad they pass the day; At night, in calmest slumbers dose fu' sound; Nor doctor need their weary life to spae,[23] Nor drogs their noddle and their sense confound, Till death slip sleely on, an' gie the hindmost wound.
5 On siccan food has mony a doughty deed By Caledonia's ancestors been done; By this did mony a wight fu' weirlike bleed In brulzies[24]frae the dawn to set o' sun. 'Twas this that braced their gardies[25] stiff an' strang; That bent the deadly yew in ancient days; Laid Denmark's daring sons on yird[26] alang; Garr'd Scottish thristles bang the Roman bays; For near our crest their heads they dought na raise.
6 The couthy cracks[27] begin whan supper's owre; The cheering bicker[28] gars them glibly gash[29] O' Simmer's showery blinks, an Winter's sour, Whase floods did erst their mailins' produce hash.[30] 'Bout kirk an' market eke their tales gae on; How Jock woo'd Jenny here to be his bride; An' there, how Marion, for a bastard son, Upo' the cutty-stool was forced to ride; The waefu' scauld o' our Mess John to bide.
7 The fient a cheep[31]'s amang the bairnies now; For a' their anger's wi' their hunger gane: Aye maun the childer, wi' a fastin' mou, Grumble an' greet, an' mak an unco maen.[32] In rangles[33] round, before the ingle's low, Frae gudame's[34] mouth auld-warld tales they hear, O' warlocks loupin round the wirrikow:[35] O' ghaists, that wine[36] in glen an kirkyard drear, Whilk touzles a' their tap, an' gars them shake wi' fear!
8 For weel she trows that fiends an' fairies be Sent frae the deil to fleetch[37] us to our ill; That kye hae tint[38] their milk wi' evil ee; An' corn been scowder'd[39] on the glowin' kiln. O mock nae this, my friends! but rather mourn, Ye in life's brawest spring wi' reason clear; Wi' eild[40] our idle fancies a' return, And dim our dolefu' days wi' bairnly[41] fear; The mind's aye cradled whan the grave is near.
9 Yet Thrift, industrious, bides her latest days, Though Age her sair-dow'd front wi' runcles wave; Yet frae the russet lap the spindle plays; Her e'enin stent[42] reels she as weel's the lave.[43] On some feast-day, the wee things buskit braw, Shall heese her heart up wi' a silent joy, Fu' cadgie that her head was up an' saw Her ain spun cleedin' on a darlin' oy;[44] Careless though death should mak the feast her foy.[45]
