Dost thou not rise, indignant shade,
And smile wi’ spurning scorn,
When they whawadhae starved thy life,
Thy senseless turf adorn?
Helpless, alane, thou clamb the brae,
Wi’meiklehonest toil,
And claughtth’ unfading garland there-
Thy sair-worn, rightful spoil.
And wear it thou! and call aloud
This axiom undoubted-
Would thou hae Nobles’ patronage?
First learn to live without it!
To whom haemuch, more shall be given,
Is every Great man’s faith;
Buthe, the helpless, needful wretch,
Shall lose the mite he hath.