Biz i’ the quaff, and flee the frost,
There we gat fu’ wi’ little cost,
An’ muckle speed;
Now wae worth death, our sport’s a’ lost,
Since Maggy’s dead.
Ae summer night I was sae fu’,
Amang the riggs I gaed to spew,
Syne down on a green bank I trow,
I took a nap,
An’ sought a night balillilu,