The Twa Dogs（3 / 9）

  the yellow letter'd geordie keeks.
  frae morn to e'en, it's nought but toiling
  at baking, roasting, frying, boiling;
  an' tho' the gentry first are stechin,
  yet ev'n the ha' folk fill their pechan
  wi' sauce, ragouts, an' sic like trashtrie,
  that's little short o' downright wastrie.
  our whipper-in, wee, blasted wonner,
  poor, worthless elf, it eats a dinner,
  better than ony tenant-man
  his honour has in a' the lan':
  an' what poor cot-folk pit their painch in,
  i own it's past my comprehension.
  luath
  trowth, caesar, whiles they're fash't eneugh:
  a cottar howkin in a sheugh,
  wi' dirty stanes biggin a dyke,
  baring a quarry, an' sic like;
  himsel', a wife, he thus sustains,
  a smytrie o' wee duddie weans,
  an' nought but his han'-daurk, to keep
  them right an' tight in thack an' rape.
  an' when they meet wi' sair disasters,
  like loss o' health or want o' masters,
  ye maist wad think, a wee touch langer,
  an' they maun starve o' cauld an' hunger:
  but how it comes, i never kent yet,
  they're maistly wonderfu' contented;
  an' buirdly chiels, an' clever hizzies,
  are bred in sic a way as this is. ↑返回顶部↑