but, could the lord's ain folk get leave,

a toom tar barrel

an' twa red peats wad bring relief,

and end the quarrel.

for me, my skill's but very sma',

an' skill in prose i've nane ava';

but quietlins-wise, between us twa,

weel may you speed!

and tho' they sud your sair misca',

ne'er fash your head.

e'en swinge the dogs, and thresh them sicker!

the mair they squeel aye chap the thicker;

and still 'mang hands a hearty bicker

o' something stout;

it gars an owthor's pulse beat quicker,

and helps his wit.

there's naething like the honest nappy;

whare'll ye e'er see men sae happy,

or women sonsie, saft an' sappy,

'tween morn and morn,

as them wha like to taste the drappie,

in glass or horn?

i've seen me dazed upon a time,

i scarce could wink or see a styme;

just ae half-mutchkin does me prime,—

ought less is little—

then back i rattle on the rhyme,

as gleg's a whittle.