An’ like a sot
Did the poor Clerk convert into
A Royal Scot.
An’ now fowks use me at their wills,
My name is blawn out o’er the hills,
At banquets, feasts, a’ mouths it fills,
’Twixt each, Here’s t’ thee,
’Tis sore traduc’d at kilns and mills,
And common smithy.
Then, Dominies, I you beseech,