Hid yon guid wirds been writ fur me,
“Turn ye the ither cheek”
Thole twa black een, far wan wid dee.
God wid hae made me meek.

Sugar 'n' Spice an aathing nice?
Na — bit a hill-cat's spit
An the clinkum-clunk, as He steered in spunk,
Wi sweirity, smeddum, grit.

I can unnerstaun, in Creation's plan
That there's mony's a better craitur;
Bit we cut wir claith, fin we first draw braith
An the lang and the short's wir naitur!