see how folk live that hae riches;
       But surely poor folk maun be wretches.”
Lu. “They’re no sae wretched’s are wad think;
       Tho’ constantly on poortith’s brink,
       They’re sae accustom’d wi’ the sight,
       The view o’t gies them little fright.... 
         The dearest comfort o’ their lives,
       Their grushie weans an’ faithfu’ wives: 
       The prattling things are just their pride,
       That sweetens a’ their fire-side.... 
         That merry day the year begins,
       They bar the door on frosty win’s;
       The nappy reeks wi’ mantling ream,
       An’ sheds a heart-inspiring steam;
       The luntin’ pipe an’ sneeshin-mill
       Are handed round wi’ right good will;
       The cantie auld folks crackin’ crouse,
       The young anes ranting thro’ the house—­
       My heart has been sae fain to see them
       That I, for joy, hae barkit wi’ them!"... 
         By this, the sun was out o’ sight,
       An’ darker gloamin’ brought the night: 
       The bum-clock humm’d wi’ lazy drone,
       The kye stood rowtin’ i’ the loan;
       When up they gat, an’ shook their lugs,
       Rejoic’d they were na men but dogs;
       An’ each took aff his several way,
       Resolv’d to meet some ither day.

Notes.—­wae, sorrowful; maun thole, must endure, must put up with; factor’s snash, agent’s abuse; poind, seize upon, sequester; gear, property; hae, have; no sae, not so; wad, would; poortith, poverty; grushie, of thriving growth, well-grown; weans, children; win’s, winds; nappy, foaming ale; reeks, smokes; ream, cream; luntin’, smoking, emitting smoke; sneeshin-mill, snuff box; cantie, merry; crackin’, conversing; crouse, with good spirits; ranting, running noisily; fain, glad; gloamin’, twilight; bum-clock, beetle (that booms); kye, cows; rowtin’, lowing; loan, milking-place; lugs, ears.

SCOTTISH (Group 8):  EDINBURGH.

The following stanzas are from The Farmer’s Ingle, a poem by
Robert Fergusson (1750-1774), a native of Edinburgh.

  Whan gloming grey out o’er the welkin keeks,
    Whan Batie ca’s his owsen to the byre,
  Whan Thrasher John, sair dung, his barn-door steeks,
    And lusty lasses at the dighting tire: 
  What bangs fu’ leal the e’enings coming cauld,
    And gars snaw-tappit winter freeze in vain,
  Gars dowie mortals look baith blythe and bauld,
    Nor fley’d wi’ a’ the poortith o’ the plain;
    Begin, my Muse, and chant in hamely strain.