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.
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.
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.
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.
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. A thocht ahint, in runkled breeks, A' spiled wi' lyin' by for weeks, The guidman follows closs, an' cleiks The sonsie missis; His sarious face at aince bespeaks The day that this is.