And to the low-lands boldly stump it down.
But then, alas! his garb would never do—
The greasy kilt, bare loins, and tatter’d shoe:
Yet urged to better food and better fame,
He borrow’d breeches and assumed a name;
Then truck’d his kilt, barter’d his motley hose,
New nail’d his heels, and capp’d the peeping toes.
His freckled fist a swineherd’s bludgeon wields,—
His tried companion through the sties and fields,
(Full many a grunting brawn had felt its sway)