“Ken ye whare Cleekie Murray’s gane?
He’s gane to dwall in his lang hame.
The beddle clapt him on the doup,
‘O hard I’ve earned my gray groat.
Lie thou there, and sleep thou soun’;
God winna wauken sic a loon.’
He’s in a’ Satan’s frything-pans,
Scouth’ring the blude frae aff his han’s:
He’s washing them in brunstane lowe;