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7
The foremost ox fell in a fur,
The other’s then did founder,
The plowman lad he breathless grew.
In troth it was nae wonder.
Then up wi’t a’,
Plowing once upon a hill,
Below there was a stane, O,
Which gard the fire flee frae the sock,
The plowman gied a grane, O.
Then up wi’t
‘Tis I have tilled meikle ground,
I’ve plowed faugh and fallow,
He that will not drink the plowman’s health,
Is but a saucy fellow.
Then up wi’t a’, &.c.
LOVE IN THE HORRORS.
This very morning, handy,
My malady was such,
I in my tea took brandy,
And took a cup too much,
(Hickups) tol de rol.
But stop, I musn’t mag hard,
