Ther's some 'at lang for parks an' halls,
An' letters to ther name;
But happiness despises walls,
It's nooan a child o' fame.
A robe may lap a woeful chap,
Whose heart wi grief may bleed,
Wol rags may rest on joyful breast,
Soa hang it! niver heed!
Th' sun shines as breet for me as them,
An' th' meadows smell as sweet,