II.

It's hardly in a body's power To keep, at times, frae being sour, To see how things are shar'd; How best o' chiels are whiles in want. While coofs on countless thousands rant, And ken na how to wair't; But Davie, lad, ne'er fash your head, Tho' we hae little gear, We're fit to win our daily bread, As lang's we're hale and fier: "Muir spier na, nor fear na,"[4] Auld age ne'er mind a feg, The last o't, the warst o't, Is only but to beg.