The Cumberland Farmer Poem by Robert Anderson

I've thought and I've thought, agean and agean,
Sin I was peat--heet, now I see it quite plain,
That farmers are happier far, tho' we're peer,
Than thur they caw gentlefwok, wi'aw their gear;
Then why about riches aye mek sec a fuss,
Gi'e us meat, drink, and cleading, it's plenty for us:
Frae the prince to the ploughman, ilk hes but his day
And when Deeth gi'es a beckon, we aw mun obey.

There's our 'squire, wi' his thousands, jant jantin about,
What! he'd gi'e aw his gear to get shot o' the gout:
Nowther heart--ach nor gout e'er wi' rakin had I,
For labour brings that aw his gold cannot buy:
Then he'll say to me, `Jacob, thou whussels and sings,
Mess, lad, but you've ten times mair pleasure than kings;
`I mean honest simplicity, freedom, and health;
`Those are dearer to man, than the trappings o' wealth.'

Can ought be mair sweet than, like larks in a mworn
To rise wi' the sunshine, and luik at the cworn?
Tho' in winter, it's true, dull and lang are the neets,
But thro' life fwok mun aye tek the bitters wi' sweets.
When God grants us plenty, and hous'd are the crops,
How we feast on cruds, collops, and guid butter--sops
Let your feyne fwok in town brag o' dainties whee will,
Content and the country for my money still.

They may tell o' their gardens as lang as they like,
Dont the flow'rs bluim as fair under ony thworn dike?
The deil a guid bite they wad e'er get I trow,
Wer't not for the peer man that follows the plough.
If we nobbet get plenty to pay the lairds rent,
And keep the bairns teydey, we aye sleep content;
Then, ye girt little fwok, niver happy in town,
Blush, blush, when ye laugh at a peer country clown.