Ye're sick, but no sair handled.
Ye're the weight o' Jock's cog, brose and a'.
Ye're there yet, and your belt hale.
"Spoken when people say, 'They will go to such a place, and there do thrive and prosper,' &c., which we think unlikely."—Kelly.
Ye're thrifty and thro' thriving, when your head gangs doun your bottom's rising.
Ye're unco gude, and ye'll grow fair.
Ye're up in the buckle, like John Barr's cat.
Ye're very foresighted, like Forsyth's cat.
Ye're weel awa if ye bide, an' we're weel quat.
Ye're welcome, but ye'll no win ben.