Wi’ hearts like lead.
Death wi’ his rung reach’d her a youff,
An’ sae she’s dead.
Maun we be forc’d thy skill to tine,
For which we will right sair repine?
Or hast thou left to bairns o’ thine,
The pauky knack,
O brewing ale amaist like wine,
That gar’d us crack?
Sae brawly did a pease-scon toast.