I’m Tibby Fowler O’ The Glen Poem by Susanna Blamire

I'm Tibby Fowler o' the glen,
And nae great sight to see;
But 'cause I'm rich, these plaguy men
Will never let me be.

There's bonny Maggy o' the brae
As gude as lass can be;
But 'cause I'm rich, these plaguy men
Hae a' run wud for me.

There's Nabob Jock comes strutting ben,
He think's the day's his ain;
But were he a' hung round wi' goud,
He'd find himsel mista'en.

There's Wat aye tries to glowre and sigh
That I may guess the cause;
But, Jenny--like, I hate to spell
Dumb Roger's hums and ha's.

There's grinning Pate laughs a' day through,
The blithest lad you'll see;
But troth he laughs sae out o' place,
He'd laugh gin I did dee.

There's Sandy, he's sae fou o' lear,
To talk wi' him is vain;
For gin we a' should say 'twas fair,
He'd prove that it did rain.

Then Jamie frets for good and ill,
'Bout sma' things maks a phrase;
And fears and frets, and things o' nought
Ding o'er his joyfu' days.

The priests and lawyers ding me dead,
But gude kens wha's the best;
And then comes in the soldier brave,
And drums out a' the rest.

The country squire and city beau,
I've had them on their knee;
But weel I ken to goud they bow,
And no downright to me.

Should like o' them come ilka day,
They may wear out the knee;
And grow to the groun' as fast as stane,
But they shall ne'er get me.