Wee shilpet, shachly, girnin'
weans,
Ye've tint your forebears' thews
an' banes;
Ye're haurly fit to walk your
lanes -
Sae dwam't an blearie ;
They've turned you, body, birse,
an' brains,
A' tapsalterie.
Gane are the days whan ilka ane,
Wi' three-girr'd cog n' lang horn
spune,
Their creepie-stool drew cheery
roun'
The parritch pat.
Wi' gratefu' thanks to Him abune,
For fare like that.
But noo, wi' thochts abune their
class,
They mix the scourins o' the press
-
A clarty, glaury, jaupin mess
Wi' sugar intil't;
Nae auld-time bairn - or man faur
less -
Wad lift a spune til't.
Ye skeely cooks, hear Scotia's
granes,
She asks for bried - don't gie her
stanes;
Her saul a healthy body sains
Mair nor the carritch;
To rear baith guid an' bonnie
weans
Leave us her parritch.
