"AH, what a wretch'd unlucky corse
Am I!" crys a poor hireling horse.
"Toil'd a' the day quite aff my feet,
With little time or ought to eat.
By break of day up frae my bed
Of dirt I'm rais'd to draw the sled
Or cart, as haps to my wanluck,
To ca' in coals or out the muck.
Or drest in sadle, howse and bridle,
To gallop with some gamphrel idle,
That for his hiring pint and shilling,
Obliges me, tho' maist unwilling,
With whip, and spur sunk in my side,
O'er heights and hows all day to ride,
While he neglects my hungry wame
'Till aft I fa' and make him lame.
Who curses me should ban himsell:
He starv'd me, I with faintness fell."
"HOW happy lives our baron's ape,
That's good for nought but girn and gape,
Or round about the lasses flee
And lift their coats aboon their knee,
To frisk and jump frae stool to stool,
Turn up his bum and play the fool.
Aft rives a mutch or steals a spoon
And burns the bairns's hose and shoon.
Yet while I'm starving in the stable,
This villain's cock'd upon the table,
There fed and roos'd by all around him—
By foolish chiels, the pox confound them."
"My friend," says a dowse headed ox,
"Our knight is e'en like other folks:
For 'tis not them who labour maist
That commonly are paid the best.
Then ne'er cast up what ye deserve,
Since better 'tis to please than serve."
"Ah, what a wratch't unluckie corse
Am Ah!" crys a puir hirelin horse,
"Toiled aw the day quite aff ma feet,
Wi little time or ocht ti eat.
Bi brek o day, up frae ma bed
O dirt Ah'm raised, ti draw the sled
Or cairt, as haps tae ma wanluck,
Ti caw in coals or oot the muck.
Or, drest in saidle, hose an bridle,
Ti wallop wi some gamphrel idle,
That for his hirin pint an shillin,
Obleeges me, tho maist unwillin,
Wi whip, an spur sunk in ma side,
Ower hichts an hows aw day ti ride,
While he neglects ma hungert wame
Till aft Ah faw an mek him lame.
Wha curses me shoud ban himsel:
He stairved me, Ah wi faintness fell.
Hoo happy leeves oor baron's awp
That's guid for nocht but girn an gawp,
Or roond aboot the lasses flee
An lift thair coats aboon thair knee,
Ti flisk an jimp frae stuil tae stuil,
Turn up his bum an play the fuil.
Aft rives a mutch or steals a spuin
An burns the bairns's hose an shuin.
Yet while Ah'm stairvin in the stable,
This veillane's cockt upon the table,
Thare fed an roosed bi aw aroond him
Be fuil-like chiels, the pox confoond thaim."
"Ma freen," says a dowse-heidit ox,
"Oor knicht is e'en like ither fowks:
For 'tisna thaim wha laubor maist
That commonly err peyed the baist.
Than neer cast up what ye deser,
Since better 'tis ti pleise than ser."