Ne’er fash your thumb what gods decree
To be the weird o’ you or me,
Nor deal in cantrip’s kittle cunning
To spier how fast your days are running,
But patient lippen for the best,
Nor be in dowie thought opprest,
Whether we see mair winters come,
Than this that spits wi canker’d foam.
Now moisten weel your geyzen’d waas
Wi’ couthy friends and hearty blaws;
Ne’er lat your hope owrgang your days,
For eild and thraldom never stays;
The day looks gash, toot aff your horn,
Nor care yae strae about the morn.