“To wear the tod frae the flock on the fell—
To gather the dew frae the heather-bell—
An’ to look at my face in your clear crystal well,
Micht gie pleasure to Aiken-drum.
“I’se seek nae guids, gear, bond, nor mark;
I use nae beddin’, shoon, nor sark;
But a cogfu’ o’ brose ’tween the licht an’ the dark
Is the wage o’ Aiken-drum.”
Quoth the wylie auld wife, “The thing speaks weel;
Our workers are scant—we hae routh o’ meal;