Than shew dislike by melancholy;
Weel judging a sour heavy face
Is not the truest mark of grace.
I hate a drunkard or a glutton,
Yet I'm nae fae to wine and mutton:
Great tables ne'er engaged my wishes
When crowded with o'er mony dishes;
A healthfu' stomach sharply set
Prefers a back-sey pipin het.
I never could imagine 't vicious