The text fulfil,
Which bids cast out the sa’rless sa’t,
On the dunghill.
They are sae fed, they lie sae saft,
They are sae hain’d, they grow sae daft;
This breeds ill wiles, ye ken fu’ aft
In the black coat,
Till poor Mess John, and the priest-craft,
Gaes to the pot.
I tald them then, it was but wicked