O’er a punch bowl, or pint o’ ale;
Nae company e’er green’d to skaill,
If John was by;
Alas! that sic a man was frail,
And born to die.
“But we his mem’ry dear shall mind,
While billows rair, or blaws the wind;
To tak’ him hence Death was no kind—
O dismal feed!
We’ll never sic anither find,