Till his waukit loofs were in a blister;
He stole his Whig spunks, tipt wi’ brunstane,
And stole his scalping-whittle’s whunstane;
And out o’ its red-hot kist he stole
The very charter-rights o’ hell.
Satan, tent weel the pilfering villain;
He’ll scrimp your revenue by stealing,
Th’ infernal boots in which you stand in,
With which your worship tramps the damn’d in,
He’ll wile them aff your cloven cloots,