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O' ere yestreen I stented graith,
An' labor'd lang an' sair on't;
But fient a work, na work wad it,
There's sic a crap o' hair on't.

There's hair on't, there's hair on't,
There's thretty thrave an' mair on't;
But gin I live to anither year,
I'll tether my grey naigs on't.

An up the glen there rase a knowe,
Below the knowe a lair on't,
I maist haed perish'd, fit an' horse,
I could na see for hair on't.

But I'll plant a stake into the flowe,
That ploughmen mey tak care on't;
An' lay twa steppin'-stanes below,
An syne I'll cowe the hair on't.