A Lettergae,
Wi’ sic a pack confin’d to be,
On gude Yule-day.
Young Jack wi’ skirls he pierc’d the skies,
I pray’d that death might close his eyes,
But did not meet with that surprise,
To my regret,
Sae had nae help, but up an’ cries
Het drinks to get.
This laid their din; the drink was stale,