And my freedom's my lairdship nae monarch daur touch. dare
A towmond o' trouble, should that be my fa', twelvemonth, lot
A night o' gude fellowship sowthers it a'; solders
When at the blythe end of our journey at last,
Wha the deil ever thinks o' the road he has past? Who the devil
Blind Chance, let her snapper and stoyte on her way, stumble, stagger
Be't to me, be't frae me, e'en let the jad gae:
Come ease or come travail, come pleasure or pain,
My warst word is—‘Welcome, and welcome again!’