Classic Poem

There's some can be happy and bide whar they are,
There's ithers ne'er happy unless they gang far;
But aft do I think I'm an easy auld stock,
While I'm joggin' aboot wi' my muckle meal-pock.

Though now I be auld, abune four-score and aucht,
Though my pow it be bauld, and my craig be na straucht,
Yet, frae mornin' till e'en—ay, as steady's a rock—
I gang joggin' aboot wi' my muckle meal-pock.

Juist our ain pairish roond, and nae mair I gang through,
And when at the end I begin it anew;
There isna' a door but wad blithely unlock,
To welcome me ben wi' my muckle meal-pock.

There isna' a hoose but I micht mak' my hame,
There isna' an auld wife wad think me to blame,
Though I open'd the door withoot gi'ein' a knock,
And cam' ben to the fire wi' my muckle meal-pock.

As ony newspaper, they say, l'm as gweed;
And better, say some, for they hinna to read;
The lads and the lasses aroond me a' flock,
And there's no ane forgets that I ha'e a meal-pock.

The gudeman he speaks aboot corn and lan',—
“Hoo's the markets,” says he, “are they risen or fa'n?
Or is this snawie weather the roads like to chock?”—
But the gudewife aye spiers for my muckle meal-pock.

To be usefu' to her I haud sticks on the fire,
Or when, to the milkin', she gangs to the byre,
She'll gi'e me a haud o' the cradle to rock,
And for that she's aye guid to my muckle meal-pock.

Though my friends a' be gane whar I yet ha'e to gang—
And o' followin' them now I canna be lang—
Yet while I am here I will laugh and I'll joke,
For I'll aye find a friend in my muckle meal-pock.