Wi’ your auld strippit coul, ye look maist like a fule,
But there’s nous i’ the lining, John Tod, John Tod;
But there’s nous i’ the lining, John Tod.
He’s weel respeckit, John Tod, John Tod;
He’s weel respeckit, John Tod:
He’s a terrible man; but we’d a’ gae wrang
If e’er he sud leave us, John Tod, John Tod;
If e’er he sud leave us, John Tod.”
Again, in another key, how would Edinburgh, how would Newhaven, how would all the coasts of the Forth, like to lose that famous song of the fisherwomen, written long ago for Neil Gow, and sent to him anonymously for the purposes of his concerts?
“Wha’ll buy my caller herrin’?