Fy, Tyndall to it, Jedbrugh heir;
I trow he was not half sae stout,
But anes his stomach was a steir,
With gun and genzie, bow and spier,
He micht se mony a crakit crown,
But up amang the merchant gier,
They bussie were as we wer doun.
The swallow-tails frae teckles flew,
Fyve hundred slain into the flicht,
But we had pestellets anew,