6
For sad misluck, without my hat,
I doiting cam’ awa, man;
An’ when I down the Drygate cam.
The win’ began to blaw, man.
When I cam to the Drygate Brig,
It whipt awa my good brown wig,
That whirl’d like ony whirligig,
As up it flew out o’ my view.
While I stood glowring, waefu’ blue,
Wi’ wide-extended jaw, man.
When I began to grape for’t syne,
Thrang poutering wi’ my staff, man,
I coupet owre a muckle stane,
And skail’d my pickle snuff, man.
My staff out o’ my hand did jump,
And hit my snout a dreadfu’ thump,
Which rais’d a most confoundet lump;
But whaur it flew I never knew.
Yet sair I rue tho mark sae blue,
It looks sae fleesome wauf, man.
Now wad ye profit by my loss,
Then tak’ advice frae me, man.
And ne’er let common sense tak’ wing
On fumes o’ barley bree, man.
For drink can heeze a man sae high,
As gar his head maist touch the sky,
But down he tumbles by and bye,
Wi’ sic a thud ’mang stanes and mud,
That aft it’s good if dirt and blood
Be a’ he has to dree, man.
