San' man frae the quarry hole,
Bring a pouk o' san';
Stan' ahint my back, an' tak'
A neivefu' in your han'.
Here's a fechtin', restless wean,
To every mischief gi'en;
Fling a handfu' in his face,
And gar him rub his een.
I hae done what mithers may
To please this glow'rin' fule—
Made a stable for his horse
By turnin' up the stule;
Tied the cart-string roun' its neck—
I did the same yestreen—
Yet he rocks and coonts his taes,
An' winna rub his een.
I hae sat frae six to eicht,
This rogue upon my knee;
I may sit anither hoor,
For onything I see.
No a sign o' sleep ava,
What can a' this mean?
San' man frae the quarry hole,
Come an' fill his een.
Ben he comes wi' lang slow steps,
Seen an' heard by nane,
Hauds a gowpenfu' o' san'
Richt aboon the wean.
Drap, drap, the san' rins doon,
Through fingers lang an' lean;
San' man, tak' away your han',
See, he rubs his een.
What a rubbin' wi' his neive,
Row'd as if to fecht;
What a raxin' oot o' legs,
Then an unco weicht.
Soun' at last, although he focht
Wi' a' his micht an' main—
Ready wi' his creddly ba',
Here's a sleepin' wean.
In this restless age o' oors,
Seam'd wi' speirin' doot,
Mony a san' man ane could name
Stogs an' slings aboot.
We, wha are but bearded weans,
Wunner what they mean,
When they fling their creeds aboot,
An' gar us rub oor een.