It's the way o' the Warl' when yer troubles are sair,
An' yer doon i' the dirt, aye tae tramp ye the mair;
Ye may warssle an' grane, ye may murther an' cry,
Wi' a glunch or a sneer she wull gang her wa's by!
It's the way o' the Warl' tae think maist o' braid-claith
An' the weel-plenisht purse-Oh, hoo weel she likes baith!
The thin raggit doublet she canna weel thole,
An' she ne'er could pit up wi' a pouch an' a hole!
It's the way o' the Warl' aye tae soun' weel the fame-
Nae odds hoo he gat it-o' the chiel wi' a name;
But the nameless, though giftit, are caul' i' the yird,
Ere a sang or a word i' their praise she wull mird!
Then maybe she'll say, when he's streekit and caul'-
'Puir chiel! I aye thocht him a gude kin' o' saul;'
An' syne ower his grave she'll big a wheen stanes,
An' sit on the tap o't, an' greet ower his banes!
Noo, yer way wi' the Warl's jist tae let her alane,
Ne'er fash her wi' yammerin'-ne'er mak' ye a mane-
Ne'er haud up yersel' an' yer sairs tae her een-
She's ower thrang wi' hersel', an' she cares na a preen!
Juist help ye yersel', an' there's Ane that wull help:
Whan the Warl' steeks ye oot, ne'er sit down an' yelp
Like a doug, but bear bauldly yer heid, like a man-
Keep yer e'e an' yer hert aye abune gif ye can!
Noo, Warl', hae I wrang't ye?-thou kens best thysel';
Let them that hae try't thee an' lippen't thee tell;
But, hark! i' yer lug, my puir hard-wurkin' brither,
Lippen aye maist tae Heaven, tae yersel', an' yer mither!