Hoots! Toots! ayont, ahint, afore,
The blethrin' blast may blathe an' blaw
An' shak' my dhoti;
But I am cantie, crowse, and full,
An' aiblins, at my pipe I pull,
Safe in my khoti .
I bang the gude-wife wi' my loof,
And shak' the dungcakes fra' the roof
To feed the low;
An' gin my dinner crowds my pêt,
My wee bit bairnies stamp it straight
Wi' joyous crow.
What mair, I ask, could man desire
Beyond the bit of bread an' fire,
An' safe inves'ment,
O' bawbees in a silver chain,
To guard against a day of rain,
Or raised assessment?