He, mair than a' the lave o' men, His week completit joys to ken; Half-dressed, he daunders out an' in, Perplext wi' leisure; An' his raxt limbs he'll rax again Wi' painfü' pleesure.
IV
The steerin' mither strang afit Noo shoos the bairnies but a bit; Noo cries them ben, their Sinday shüit To scart upon them, Or sweeties in their pouch to pit, Wi' blessin's on them.
V
The lasses, clean frae tap to taes, Are busked in crunklin' underclaes; The gartened hose, the weel-filled stays, The nakit shift, A' bleached on bonny greens for days An' white's the drift.
VI
An' noo to face the kirkward mile: The guidman's hat o' dacent style, The blackit shoon, we noo maun fyle As white's the miller: A waefü' peety tae, to spile The warth o' siller.
VII
Our Marg'et, aye sae keen to crack, Douce-stappin' in the stoury track, Her emeralt goun a' kiltit back Frae snawy coats, White-ankled, leads the kirkward pack Wi' Dauvit Groats.