7
I donbt when she's run out the length o' her caole,
She'll hae to stop short or come happin behind.
The stout camlet claith that was worn by our dads
Is now thrown aside for best superfine,
Pelisses and great-coats instead o' the plaids,
An’ beavers alas, for the jewels o' langsyne.
Our fathers were happier wi' brose and wi' bonnets
Than fools now-a-days wi' their silks, wine and wannets,
An lad, since our heads are gaun round like the planets.
We'll surely rin daft if sic dainties we tyne,
A few years ago, in the midst o' war,
Our trade flourished finely and haughty were we
But now by the piper, we've gotten a scar,
Which we'll ne'er forget till the day that we die.
Our guineas and bullets flew thick in the struggle.
At length we prevail'd o'er the Corsican bogle,
But still I'm afraid that we shortly maun shogle,
Or shake like the leaf on the tall aspen tree.
Then Sandy be silent, but dinna be sad,
Altho' ye are scrimpit o' mair than your tea,
Tho' meal should be costly and scarce to behad,
Ye e'en maun submit to the great pow'rs that be
Wi' bauchles for boots, an your braw Sunday coats
Turned threadbare, or covered wi patches an'mots
Wi’ brochan instead o' fat broth in your pots,
Be thankfu' and ken it's your duty to dree.
Altho’ you should grumble it matters not much,
You ne’er will do better, an’ that you will see,
