Themselves wi’ gathering in their fees,
While I must face mine enemies,
Or shaw my dock:
There’s odds ’twixt handling pens wi’ ease
An’ a firelock.
Sae shall they never mount the stool,
Whereon the lasses greet an’ howl,
Tho’ deil a tear, scarce fair or foul,
Comes o’er their cheeks;
Their mind’s not there, ’tis spinning wool,