The byword “as sweer as the Miller”
Disturbs me but little, for hech!
Ye'll find for ane willin’ to bishop
A score sittin’ ready to pech.
But come to the brose or the bottle,
There's few need less priggin’ than me;
While they're busy blessin’ the bannock,
I'm raxin’ a han’ to fa’ tee.
The neighbours clash lood o’ my drinkin’,
An’ naething hits harder than truth;
But tales micht be tempered, I'm thinkin’,
Gin fouk would consider my drooth.
Nae doot, at the Widow's displenish
Gey aften I emptied the stoup;
But thrift is a thing we should cherish,
An’ whisky's aye free at a roup.
Week in an’ week oot, when I'm millin’,
The sids seem to stick in my throat;
Nae wonder at markets I'm willin’
To spend wi’ a crony a groat.
An’ if I've a shaltie to niffer,
Or't maybe some barley to sell,
An oonslockened bargain's aye stiffer —
Ye ken that fu’ brawly yersel’.
Fae forbears my thirst I inherit,
As others get red hair or gout;
The heirship's expensive: mair merit
To me that I never cry out.
An’ sae, man, I canna help thinkin’
The neighbours unkindly; in truth,
Afore they can judge o’ my drinkin’
They first maun consider my drooth.