Who fed his nose and scratched his ruddy pate;
But when old England's bulwark he descried,
His dear lov'd mull, alas! was thrown aside.
With lift'd hands he blest his native place,
Then scrubb'd himself, and thus bewailed his case:
AIR.
How hard, O Sawney, is thy lot,
Who was so blithe of late,
To see such meat as can't be got,
When hunger is so great.