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Poem	A barefoot boy I went to school To save a cobbler's fee, For though the porridge pot was full A frugal folk were we; We baked our bannocks, spun our wool, And counted each bawbee. We reft our living from the soil, And I was shieling bred; My father's hands were warped with toil, And crooked with grace he said. My mother made the kettle boil As spinning wheel she fed. My granny smoked a pipe of clay, And yammered of her youth; The hairs upon her chin were grey, She had a single tooth; Her mutch was grimed, I grieve to say, For I would speak the truth. You of your ancestry may boast,-- Well, here I brag of mine; For if there is a heaven host I hope they'll be in line: My dad with collie at his heel In plaid of tartan stripe; My mammie with her spinning wheel, My granny with her pipe.
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