3
"These three weeks a' rinin, I’ve rise at three,
An’ wrought just as lang as a body could see,
An’ a’ that I’ve made ot', in that time I trow,
Wad scarce get potatoes an’ dross for a sow;
What then?—we are counted a parcel o’swine,
An’ laugh’d at, whene’er we look back to langsyne.
"But what need we speak o’ our ain private case,
When famine, and want, are pourtrayed on ilk face,
When thousands whose prospects in life once were fair,
Now pine in starvation, and sigh in despair,
When toil, and disease, and chill penury join,
To blast every comfort the poor had langsyne.
"Hech man!—if what you had stated be fact,
Our prospects indeed are most gloomy and black
"But do ye not think they may yet brighten up?
Indeed to be candid, I’ve nae siccan hope,
Unless the Black Book to the flames we consign,
And begin a new score like oar lathers langsyne.
