My hand-waled curse keep hard in chase
The harpy, hoodock, purse-proud race,
Wha count on poortith as disgrace--
Their tuneless hearts!
May fireside discords jar a base
To a' their parts!
But come, your hand, my careless brither,
I' th' ither warl', if there's anither,
An' that there is I've little swither
About the matter;
We check for chow shall jog thegither,
I'se ne'er bid better.
We've faults and failings--granted clearly,
We're frail backsliding mortals merely,
Eve's bonny squad, priests wyte them sheerly
For our grand fa';
But stilt, but still, I like them dearly--
God bless them a'!
Ochon! for poor Castalian drinkers,
When they fa' foul o' earthly jinkers,
The witching curs'd delicious blinkers
Hae put me hyte,
And gart me weet my waukrife winkers,
Wi' girnan spite.
But by yon moon!--and that's high swearin'--
An' every star within my hearin'!
An' by her een wha was a dear ane!
I'll ne'er forget;
I hope to gie the jads a clearin'
In fair play yet.
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