As suited best;
But Death has laid him in the clay—
Well may he rest.
“A fiddle spring he’d let us hear,
I think they ca’d it “Nidge-nod-near,”
He’d gi’ a punk, and look sae queer,
Without a joke,
You’d swore he spoke words plain and clear,
At ilka stroke.
“It did ane good to hear his tale,