His e'ening sang and his morning sang are no baith alike.

His eggs hae a' twa yolks.

His geese are a' swans.

Or, his stories are all of a Munchausen order, told more for the sake of effect than of truth.

His head will never fill his faither's bonnet.

His head's in a creel.

"My senses wad be in a creel,
Should I but dare a hope to speel
Wi' Allan, or wi' Gilbertfield,
The braes o' fame;
Or Ferguson, the writer chiel,
A deathless name."

—Burns.

His heart's in his hose.