They slily venture on that game,
All Fours, I think, they call’t by name,
Baith auld an’ rife,
Than in the play, Mess John is slain
Wi’ his ain knife.
’Tis kind, therefore, I winna strive
My doughty deeds here to descrive,
A lightsome life still did I thrive,
Did never itch,
By out an’ in abouts to drive,