From my embraces made digression,
Go home, G-d d—n your soul, and spin,
Or else, by L—d, I’ll lamb your skin.”
Thus fast unto destruction hasting,
Their health consuming, money wasting;
They drink, and ne’er for home declare,
Until they’re pockets are quite bare.
Here mangy Scots from banks of Tay,
With scarce a plaid to bear away;
Half-starv’d, they from the frozen North,