For less than a’ there is to see
’ll never be owre muckle for me.
Cutty, gin you’ve mair to strip,
Aff wi’t, lass—and let it rip!”...
Ilka pleesure I can ha’e
Ends like a dram ta’en yesterday.
And tho’ to ha’e it I am lorn
—What better ’ud I be the morn?...
My belly on the gantrees there,
The spigot frae my cullage,