Thae curst horse-leeches o' th' Excise, These
Wha mak the whisky stells their prize—stills
Haud up thy hand, deil! Ance—twice—thrice!
There, seize the blinkers! spies
An' bake them up in brunstane pies brimstone
For poor damn'd drinkers.
Fortune! if thou'll but gie me still
Hale breeks, a bannock, and a gill, Whole breeches, oatmeal cake
An' rowth o' rhyme to rave at will, plenty
Tak' a' the rest,