(Jock Porteous, An’ro Hen’erson,
Wull Fergyson, me, Wullie Beaty.
Twae, like mysel’, may yet leeve on—
The ither twae—Aih me, the pity!)
But passin’ by a wee cot-house,
Wi’ riggin’ laigh, an’ gable suety,
Yin cries oot sae baul’ an’ croose,
“Come, boys, c’ way in, an’ licht the cutty!”
I’d maist ill tricks a lad can ha’e—
An’ some I hadna neebors spak’ o’—