As blacksmith frae the village.
The fiddles pour their love-sick pray’rs
The flutie-man is whis’lin’,
Just like when ancient madam scares
A thrummock-touzle hisslin’.
There’s young folks movin’ like a fair,
There’s auld folks quaffin’ sherry.
An’ you sae weary, fu’ o’ care,
When all the world is merry?
Gin ye maun feed your dowie grudge,