I find, before you end your flyte,
And wind yer pirn,
Ye’re nae sae cankered in the bite
As in the girn.
For when you think I’m doomed to dwell,
The lang for-ever-mair in hell,
Ye come and bid a kind farewell—
And, guid be here,
E’en for the very Deil himsel’,
Let fa’ a tear.