A dreep on the trough faas doon,
The gate o’ the cattle- coort wallops ajee,
The herdsman’s hishin the latchy kye till the byre,
Sottar an tyauve, are the terms o’ a fairmer's fee.

The plyter tit-tittin his steps,
Haudin him back, is biddin him bide.
There's mony's the dreel wints turned
Or he wins till his ain fireside.

Oh lan — ye hae bled the reid frae his cheeks,
Ye've rypit his pooches o’ siller,
Ye've bladded his bride,
Ye've made him yer servant,
Ye've strappit him hard, till yer side
Gart him think yer his ain.
Ye've gaen him fur pyement
The scoor o’ the sun,
An the wearisome wheep o’ the rain;
This — ye canna gainsay.
Oh tell me — fit mair'll ye hae?

Oh I'll hae his youth, an his manhood,
The swyte o’ his broo,
I'll hae me the strength o’ his airm,
Cleekit ontil the ploo,
An syne, at the hinner-en,
Fin the wirk grows mair nur a body can thole,
An he's happit wi yird,
As deep as a doon-lyin mole,
I'll hae me his seed, an his soul.