I feared my ain ; but had nae dread, 

 That I for loss o' theirs should mourn ; 



Or that when luck an' favour fled, 

 Their friendship wad injurious turn. 



But he who feeds the ravens young, 

 Lets naething pass he disna see ; 



He'll sometime judge o' right an' wrong, 

 An' aye provide for you an' me. 



An' hear me, Hector, thee I'll trust, 

 As far as thou hast wit an' skill ; 



Sae will I ae sweet lovely breast, 

 To me a balm for every ill. 



To these my trust shall never turn, 

 While I have reason truth to scan ; 



But ne'er beyond my mother's son, 



To aught that bears the shape o' man. — 



I ne'er could thole thy cravin' face, 

 Nor when ye pattit on my knee ; 



Though in a far an' unco place, 



I've whiles been forced to beg for thee. 



Even now I'm in my master's power, 

 Where my regard can scarce be shown ; 



But ere I'm forced to gie thee o'er, 



When thou art auld an' senseless grown, 

 114 



