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W R Darling

Click here to listen to this in Real Audio read by Peter D Wright

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

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