O Dominie.
For, hark, I’ll tell you what they think,
Since I left handling pen an’ ink:
Wae worth that weary soup o’ drink
He lik’d sae weel,
He drank it a’, left not a clink
His throat to swill.
He lik’d, still sitting on his doup,
To view the pint or cutty stoup,
And sometimes lasses overcoup,