Cam’ tumblin’ down like Jacks and Gills,
And pounced upon our whisky stills.
Fal, lal, &c.
My faither he was off like a shot,
And said the stills might go to pot;
While I alone withstood the shock,
And tumbled the gaugers o’er a rock,
And made their heads play nick-ety-knock.
Fal, lal, &c.
Full fifty fathoms they fell, I think,