when I 'm viewing o't,
And I hae servants at my command,
And twa dainty cowts for the plowin' o't.
My farm is a snug ane, lies high on a muir,
The muircocks and plivers aft skirl at my door,
And whan the sky low'rs I 'm aye sure o' a show'r,
To moisten my land for the plowin' o't.

Leeze me on the mailin that 's fa'n to my share,
It taks sax muckle bowes for the sawin' o't;
I 've sax braid acres for pasture, and mair,
And a dainty bit bog for the mawin' o't.
A spence and a kitchen my mansionhouse gies,
I 've a cantie wee wifie to daut whan I please,
Twa bairnies, twa callans, that skelp o'er the leas,
And they 'll soon can assist at the plowin' o't.

My biggin' stands sweet on this south slopin' hill,
And the sun shines sae bonnily beamin' on 't,
And past my door trots a clear prattlin' rill,
Frae the loch, whare the wild-ducks are swimmin' o't;
And on its green banks, on the gay simmer days,
My wifie trips barefoot, a-bleachin' her claes,
And on the dear creature wi' rapture I gaze,
While I whistle and sing at the plowin' o't.

To rank amang farmers I hae muckle pride,
But I mauna speak high when I 'm tellin' o't,
How brawlie I strut on my shelty to ride,
Wi' a sample to shew for the sellin' o't.
In blue worset boots that my auld mither span,
I 've aft been fu' vanty sin' I was a man,
But now they 're flung by, and I 've bought cordivan,
And my wifie ne'er grudged me a shillin' o't.

Sae now, whan to kirk or to market I gae--
My weelfare what need I be hiddin' o't?--
In braw leather boots shinin' black as the slae,
I dink me to try the ridin' o't.
Last towmond I sell'd off four bowes o' guid bear,
And thankfu' I was, for the victual was dear,
And I came hame wi' spurs on my heels shinin' clear,
I had sic good luck at the sellin' o't.

Now hairst time is o'er, and a fig for the laird,
My rent 's now secure for the toilin' o't;
My fields are a' bare, and my crap 's in the yard,
And I 'm nae mair in doubts o' the spoilin' o't.
Now welcome gude weather, or wind, or come weet,
Or bauld ragin' winter, wi' hail, snaw, or sleet,
Nae mair can he draigle my crap 'mang his feet,
Nor wraik his mischief, and be spoilin' o't.

And on the douf days, whan loud hurricanes blaw,
Fu' snug i' the s