I see’d a Highlander, ’twas right drole,
With a string of puddings, hung on a pole,
Whip’d o’er his shoulder, skipp’d like a fole,
Caus’d Maggy bann,
Lap o’er the midden and midden-hole,
And aff he ran.
When check’d for this, they’d often tell ye,
Indeed her nainsel’s a tume belly.
You’ll no gi’et wanting bought, nor sell me,
Hersel will haet,