* THE MILLER EXPLAINS *

The byword “as sweer as the Miller”

Disturbs me but little, for hech!

Ye'll find for ane willin’ to bishop

A score sittin’ ready to pech.

But come to the brose or the bottle,

There's few need less priggin’ than me;

While they're busy blessin’ the bannock,

I'm raxin’ a han’ to fa’ tee.

The neighbours clash lood o’ my drinkin’,

An’ naething hits harder than truth;

But tales micht be tempered, I'm thinkin’,

Gin fouk would consider my drooth.

Nae doot, at the Widow's displenish

Gey aften I emptied the stoup;

But thrift is a thing we should cherish,

An’ whisky's aye free at a roup.

Week in an’ week oot, when I'm millin’,

The sids seem to stick in my throat;

Nae wonder at markets I'm willin’

To spend wi’ a crony a groat.

An’ if I've a shaltie to niffer,

Or't maybe some barley to sell,

An oonslockened bargain's aye stiffer —

Ye ken that fu’ brawly yersel’.

Fae forbears my thirst I inherit,

As others get red hair or gout;

The heirship's expensive: mair merit

To me that I never cry out.

An’ sae, man, I canna help thinkin’

The neighbours unkindly; in truth,

Afore they can judge o’ my drinkin’

They first maun consider my drooth.