's his horse;
he draws a bonie silken purse,
as ng's my tail, where, thro' the steeks,
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 ste,
yet ev'n the ha' folk fill their pe
wi' sauce, ragouts, an' sic like trashtrie,
that's little short o' dht wastrie.
our whipper-in, wee, bsted wonner,
poor, worthless elf, it eats a dinner,
better than o-man
his honour has in a' the n':
an'
The Twa Dogs(5/18)