Classic Poem

Ne'er fash your thumb what gods decree
To be the weird o' you or me,
Nor deal in cantrup's kittle cunning
To speir how fast your days are running,
But patient lippen for the best ,
Nor be in dowy thought opprest,
Whether we see mare winters come
Than this that spits wi' canker'd foam.

Now moisten weel your geyzen'd wa'as
Wi' couthy friends and hearty blaws ;
Ne'er lat your hope o'ergang your days ,
For eild and thraldom never stays;
The day looks gash , toot aff your horn ,
Nor care yae strae about the morn .