Ye’ve nought to do but mark an’ tell
Your neibour’s fauts an’ folly!
Whase life is like a weel-gaun mill,
Supplied wi’ store o’ water,
The heapéd happer’s ebbing still,
An’ still the clap plays clatter.
Hear me, ye venerable core,
As counsel for poor mortals,
That frequent pass douce Wisdom’s door,
For glaiket Folly’s portals: