The last new shoon our Betty gat,
They pinch her feet, the deil may care!
What, she mud hae them leady like,
Tho' she hes corns for evermair!
Nae black gairn stockins will she wear,
They mun be white, and cotton feyne!
This meks me think o' other teymes,
The happy days o' auld lang seyne!

Our dowter, tui, a palace bought,
A guid reed cloak she cannot wear;
And stays, she says, spoil leady's sheps--
Oh! it wad mek a parson swear.
Nit ae han's turn o' wark she'll dui,
She'll nowther milk nor sarra t'sweyne--
The country's puzzen'd round wi' preyde,
For lasses work'd reet hard lang seyne!

We've three guid rooms in our clay house,
Just big eneugh for sec as we;
They'd hev a parlour built wi' bricks,
I mud submit--what cou'd I dee?
The sattle neist was thrown aseyde,
It meeght hae sarra'd me and mine;
My mudder thought it mens'd a house--
But we think shem o' auld lang seyne!

We us'd to gae to bed at dark,
And rose agean at four or five;
The mworn's the only time for wark,
If fwok are only healthy and wad thrive:
Now we get up--nay, God kens when!
And nuin's owre suin for us to deyne;
I's hungry or the pot's hawf boil'd,
And wish for teymes leyke auld lang seyne.

Deuce tek the fuil--invented tea!
For tweyce a--day we that mun have:
Then taxes get so monstrous hee,
The deil a plack yen now can seave!
There's been nae luck throughout the lan',
Sin' fwok mud like their betters sheyne;
French fashions mek us parfet fuils;
We're caff and san' to auld lang seyne!