To rank amang farmers I hae muckle pride,
      But I mauna speak high when I ‘m tellin’ o’t,
    How brawlie I strut on my shelty to ride,
      Wi’ a sample to shew for the sellin’ o’t. 
    In blue worset boots that my auld mither span,
    I ‘ve aft been fu’ vanty sin’ I was a man,
    But now they ’re flung by, and I ’ve bought cordivan,
      And my wifie ne’er grudged me a shillin’ o’t.

    Sae now, whan to kirk or to market I gae—­
      My weelfare what need I be hiddin’ o’t?—­
    In braw leather boots shinin’ black as the slae,
      I dink me to try the ridin’ o’t. 
    Last towmond I sell’d off four bowes o’ guid bear,
    And thankfu’ I was, for the victual was dear,
    And I came hame wi’ spurs on my heels shinin’ clear,
      I had sic good luck at the sellin’ o’t.

    Now hairst time is o’er, and a fig for the laird,
      My rent ‘s now secure for the toilin’ o’t;
    My fields are a’ bare, and my crap ’s in the yard,
      And I ‘m nae mair in doubts o’ the spoilin’ o’t. 
    Now welcome gude weather, or wind, or come weet,
    Or bauld ragin’ winter, wi’ hail, snaw, or sleet,
    Nae mair can he draigle my crap ’mang his feet,
      Nor wraik his mischief, and be spoilin’ o’t.

    And on the douf days, whan loud hurricanes blaw,
      Fu’ snug i’ the spence I ‘ll be viewin’ o’t,
    And jink the rude blast in my rush-theekit ha’,
      Whan fields are seal’d up from the plowin’ o’t. 
    My bonny wee wifie, the bairnies, and me,
    The peat-stack, and turf-stack our Phoebus shall be,
    Till day close the scoul o’ its angry ee,
      And we ‘ll rest in gude hopes o’ the plowin’ o’t.

    And whan the year smiles, and the lavrocks sing,
      My man Jock and me shall be doin’ o’t;
    He ’ll thrash, and I ’ll toil on the fields in the spring,
      And turn up the soil at the plowin’ o’t. 
    And whan the wee flow’rets begin then to blaw,
    The lavrock, the peasweep, and skirlin’ pickmaw,
    Shall hiss the bleak winter to Lapland awa,
      Then we ‘ll ply the blythe hours at the sawin’ o’t.

    And whan the birds sing on the sweet simmer morn,
      My new crap I ‘ll keek at the growin’ o’t;
    Whan hares niffer love ’mang the green-bairdit corn,
      And dew draps the tender blade shewin’ o’t,
    On my brick o’ fallow my labours I ’ll ply,
    And view on their pasture my twa bonny kye,
    Till hairst-time again circle round us wi’ joy,
      Wi’ the fruits o’ the sawin’ and plowin’ o’t.

    Nor need I to envy our braw gentle focks,
      Wha fash na their thumbs wi’ the sawing o’t,
    Nor e’er slip their fine silken hands in the pocks,
      Nor foul their black shoon wi’ the plowin’ o’t: 
    For, pleased wi’ the little that fortune has lent,
    The seasons row round us in rural content;
    We ’ve aye milk and meal, and our laird gets his rent,
      And I whistle and sing at the plowin’ o’t.