We drink their health, both far and near:
And so we'll have, come weal or woe,
Another glass before we go.
And here's ourselves!—no much to boast;
For man's a wean that lives and learns;
And some win hame, and some are lost;
But still—we're all John Thomson's bairns!
So here, your hand!—come weal or woe,
Another glass before we go!
'And some win hame, and some are lost'—this was a curious note to strike in a bacchanalian song; but of course in that atmosphere of tobacco and whisky and loud-voiced merriment such minor touches were altogether unnoticed.