At farmers’ faugh lairds still may laugh,
An’ the tinker sing as he clouts the pan;
But what will cheer my bairnie dear
When he kens his father's a witless man?
Bought by a ring, puir silly thing,
An’ bent by the wind o’ my kinsfolk's breath,
Wha would gang braw, if that were‘ t a’?—
O! a loveless life it is waur than death!
Will land or hoose seem good excuse
For a mither married where love was nane?
It's hard for me, this weird to dree,
But it's waur that I canna bear't my lane.
My puir wee bairn, ye'll live to learn
How heavy the burden ye hae to bear.
What's gold or name when born to shame,
An’ o’ sic a twasome to be the heir?