And when they meet—no in the street,
But aiblins ower a meal like—
Then oot they draw a meerschaum braw,
An’ that looks real genteel like.
Weel! there’s nae ban on ony man,
Let him be braw or sootie;
I’ll no debar their grand cigar,
But I’ll haud to my cutty.
* * * * *
The winter’s blast, aft gey an fast,