In a’ this warld, there’s no a skellum,
Nor silly self-conceited blellum,
But Evan, lad, wad bravely tell ’em
The honest truth;
E’en if he kend that they should fell ’im
Withouten ruth.
Ye feathered things in mournfu’ tune,
Come join my waesome, doleful croon;
Ye dogs that bay the silver moon,
Your sorrow show it;