His school, sae lang’s he had a shilling,
But lov’d to be where there was filling
Good punch or ale,
For him to rise was just like killing
Or first to fail.
His fishing-wand, his sneeshing box,
A fowling piece, to shoot muir cocks,
An’ hunting hare through craigs and rocks,
This was his game,
Still left the young anes, so the fox