On A Scotch Bard, Gone To The West Indies
#039; e'e;
for weel i wat they'll sairly miss him
that's owre the sea!
o fortuhey hae room to grumble!
hadst thou taen aff some drowsy bummle,
wha do nought but fyke an' fumble,
'twad been nae plea;
but he was gleg as ony wumble,
that's owre the sea!
auld, tie kyle may weepers wear,
an' stain them wi' the saut, saut tear;
'twill mak her poor auld heart, i fear,
in flinders flee:
he was her ureat mony a year,
that's owre the sea!
he saw misfortune's cauld nor-west
ng mustering up a bitter
On A Scotch Bard, Gone To The West Indies(2/4)