Wid varra lal to brag on but a sperrit niver sad,
When he went strowlin’ far an’ free aboot his sea-side heàm,
An’ stamp’t a mark upon his heart of ivery frind-like neàm;—
A mark ’at seems as time drees on to deepen mair an’ mair—
A mark ’at ola’s breeghtens meàst i’ t’ gloom o’ comin’ care;
But nowte upon his heart has left a mark ’at hods so breeght
As Billy Watson’ lonnin’ of a lownd summer neeght!
Oor young days may’d be wastet days, but dār their mem’ry’s dear!
And what wad yan not part wid noo ageàn to hev them here?
Whativer trubles fash’t us than, though nayder leet nor few,