Sough o' war

DOCKENS AFORE HIS PEERS 41
An’ I’m sae muckle oot aboot wi' markets till
atten\
We’ve twa chaps syne to wirk the horse, as
sweir as sweir can be,
They fussle better than they ploo, they ’re aul’
an’ mairret tee,
An’ baith hae hooses on the term, an’ Francie
never kens
Foo muckle com gyangs hame at nicht, to
fatten up their hens.
The baillie syne, a peer-hoose geet, nae better
than a feel,
He slivvers, an’ has Sic a mant, an’ ae clog-fit
as weel;
He’s barely sense to muck the byre, an’ cairry
in the scull.
An’ park the kye, an’ cogue the caur, an’
scutter wi’ the bull.
Weel, that’s them a’—I didna hear—the laadie
i’ the gig ?
That’s Johnnie, he’s a littlan jist, for a’ he
leuks sae big.
Fy na, he isna twenty yet—ay, weel, he’s
maybe near’t;
Owre young to lippen wi’ a gun, the crater
would be fear’t.