Wee shilpet, shachly, girnin'
Ye've tint your forebears' thews
Ye're haurly fit to walk your
Sae dwam't an blearie ;
They've turned you, body, birse,
Gane are the days whan ilka ane,
Wi' three-girr'd cog n' lang horn
Their creepie-stool drew cheery
The parritch pat.
Wi' gratefu' thanks to Him abune,
For fare like that.
But noo, wi' thochts abune their
They mix the scourins o' the press
A clarty, glaury, jaupin mess
Wi' sugar intil't;
Nae auld-time bairn - or man faur
Wad lift a spune til't.
Ye skeely cooks, hear Scotia's
She asks for bried - don't gie her
Her saul a healthy body sains
Mair nor the carritch;
To rear baith guid an' bonnie
Leave us her parritch.