Fy lads! shout a' a' a' a' a',
My gear's a' gane.
But Peenye, my gude son, is out at the Hagbut-head,
His e'en glittering for anger like a fierye gleed;
Crying—"Mak sure the nooks
Of Maky's-muir crooks;
For the wily Scot takes by nooks, hooks, and crooks.
Gin we meet a' together in a head the morn,
We'll be merry men."
Fy lads! shout a' a' a' a' a'