I met the auld man, wid his starv'd grey cur near him,
The blast owre the mountain blew cauld i' the vale;
Nae heame to receive him, few strange fwok to hear him,
And thin wer his patch'd duds, he mickle did ail:
A tear dimm'd his e'e, his feace furrow'd by sorrow,
Seem'd to say, he frae whope nit ae comfort cud borrow,
And sad was the beggarman's teale.

'Behold,' he cried, seeghing, 'the spwort of false fortune!
'The peer wretched outcast, the beggar you see,
'Yence boasted o' wealth, but the warl is uncertain,
'And friens o' my youth smeyle nae langer on me:
'I's the last o' the flock, my weyfe Ann for Heaven left me,
'Of my only lad, Tim, accurst war neist bereft me;
'My yage's suppwort lang was he!

'Yence in the proud city, I smeyl'd amang plenty,
'Frae east and frae west, monie a vessel then bore
'To me the rich cargo, to me the feyne dainty,
'And the peer hungry bodies still shar'd of my store;
'A storm sunk my shippen, by false friens surrounded,
'The laugh o' the girt fwok, this meade me confounded,
'Ilk prospec for iver was o'er!

'I creep owre the mountains, but meast in the vallies,
'And wi' my fond dog share a crust at the duir;
'I shun the girt fwok, and ilk house leyke a palace,
'For sweetest to me is the meyte frae the puir:
'At neet, when on strae wi' my faithfu' dog lyin,
'I thank him that meade me, for what I's enjoying;
'His promise I whope to secure.''