It’s nae delight tae be a hen,
Wi’ clooks an claws an caimb.
Reestin wi the rottans
In a hen-hoose for a hame.

Nae suner div I sattle doon,
My clutch o’ bairns tae hatch;
The fairm-wife comes — a scraunin’ pest —
She cowps me aff ma cosy nest
A tarry-fingered vratch.

Jist lately, though, she’s changed her tune —
Ma platie’s piled wi corn,
“Sup up, ma bonnie quine,” says she,
“We’re haein broth the morn!”