Morris, G.S.

Come aa ye lads that follow the ploo
A story true I'll tell to you
O some o the ongyans we gyang thro'
At Sleepytoon in the mornin.

At five oor foreman jumps like a shot
An cries, 'Lord sake! Fat a sleepy-heided lot,
Are ye aa gyan tae lie there till ye rot!'
At Sleepytoon in the mornin.

Syne at half-five we follow oor nose,
Ower tae the kitchie tae chaw oor brose,
Fairm servants seldom need a dose
O caster ile in the mornin.

The foreman lays his brose caup by
An ben the hoose he gaes a cry.
He's hardly time his pints tae tie
Till he's back tae his horse in the mornin.

Oor baillie's sober, thin an smaa,
Sidewyes he's hardly seen ava.
Bit he'll pu neeps wi ony twa
That iver raise in the mornin.

A keen bit birkie is oor loon
His wall-tams cost him half-a-croon.
His breeks are that tight he's flyte tae sit doon
For teerin his breeks in the mornin.

We hiv a great muckle kitchie deem,
I'll swear she's gey near achteen steen!
The auld cat kittled in een o her sheen
Afore she got up ae mornin.

She's a hungry Hun, the fairmer's wife,
Ae ee says Forfar and the ither says Fife,
A face like a decanter an a nose like a knife
That wid hash Swadish neeps in the mornin.

The missie she is nae sae bad,
It's jist aboot time she hid a lad.
I'm thinkin mysel o speerin her dad
For his dother some fine mornin.

I've been writin this stroud on the corn kist
I'm the orra loon, I'll seen be missed,
An as I disnae wint a wallop fae the foreman's fist
Ta-ta! Till some ither mornin.