He pu's't out and raxes, an' draws in the taxes,
An' pouches the siller—shame! Peter M'Craw!
He'll be at your door by daylight on a Monday,
On Tyesday ye're favoured again wi' a ca';
E'en a slee look he gied me at kirk the last Sunday,
Whilk meant—"Mind the preachin' an' Peter M'Craw."
He glowrs at my auld door as if he had made it;
He keeks through the keyhole when I am awa';
He'll syne read the auld stane, that tells a' wha read it,
To "Blisse God for a' giftes,"[A]—but Peter M'Craw!