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Thrummy him thanked, an‘ sync his gowd Intil a muckle purse he stow’d, And cramm'd it in his oxter-pouch, And syne sought out his aiken crutch : And, Fare ye weel- I maun awa, And see gin I get thro‘ the sna‘, Weel, fare ye weel, replied the Laird : But how comes it ye hanno‘ shar‘d Or gien your neibqr o' the money ? Na, by my saul, I Sir, quo' Thrummy, When I the siller, Sir, did win, To ha'e done this wad be sin,) Afore that I the Ghaist had laid, The nasty beast had — the bed. And sae my tale I hear do end, I hope no one it will offend : My muse will na assist me langer, The dorty jade sometimes does anger, I thought her ance a gay smart lass. But now she's come to sic a pass, That a' my cudgeling and wheeping, Wll mardly wake her out o‘ sleeping ; To plague her mair I winna try. But dight my pen and lay it by.
