At length his lonely Cot appears in view,
Beneath the shelter of an aged tree;
The expectant wee-things, toddlan, stacher through
To meet their Dad, wi' flichterin noise and glee.
His wee-bit ingle, blinkan bonilie,
His clean hearth-stane, his thrifty Wifie's smile,
The lisping infant, prattling on his knee,
Does a' his weary kiaugh and care beguile,
And makes him quite forget his labor and his toil.