Thy blyth and cheerfu’ merry muse
Of compliments is sae profuse;
For my good haivens dis me roose
    Sae very finely
It were ill breeding to refuse
    To thank her kindly.

What though sometimes in angry mood,
When she puts on her barlick-hood
Her dialect seems rough and rude;
    Let’s ne’er be flee’t
But take our bit when it is good,
    And buffet w’it.

For git we ettle anes to taught her
And dinna cawmly thole her banter,
She’ll take the flings; verse may grow scanter,
    Syne wi’ great shame
We’ll rue the day that we do want her,
    Then wha’s to blame?

But let us still her kindness culzie,
And wi’ her never breed a toulzie,
For we’ll bring aff but little spulzie
    In sic a barter;
And she’ll be fair to gar us fulzie,
    And cry for quarter.