They’re now off’ring twenty, an thinking it plenty;
Tho’ years ago, Jack, I was starving for’t brass.
“An Jack i’ the raw, ye very weel knaw,
The loss he cam too, when his house it was brunt:
His kistful of paper, went up in a vapour,
An of his sixscore pund he heard na mair on’t.
“No, no more their notes, shall they cram down our throats,
When we siller can get, man, to put i’ wour kists:
A f——t for their signing, an cautions sae whining,
Let them who won’t take them, wey, do it that lists.”