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Which drave the company a’ throuther,
As they were tippled baith thegither.
But in a crack, the prins brak loose,
An’ Margret, ravin’ left the house,
Hameward, in haste, she hobbl’d sweating
Tell’d Tamos the disaster greeting,
Wrung baith her ban’s an’ solemn sware.
To dine wi’ gentle folk nae mair.
SODA WATER.
Puir Scotland’s scaith is whisky rife,
The very king o’ curses;
Breeds ilka ill, care, trouble, strife,
Ruins health and empties purses.
It fills a peaceful land vvi’ strife,
The ale-house fills wi’ roarin’;
It fills wi’ broils domestic life,
An’ fills the kirk wi’ snoarin’.
’Twas on a bonny morn in May,
Twa three chiels did forgather,
The night before, they’d gane astray,
And were a’ drunk thegither;
Wi’ pain their pows were like to part,
Their very tongues did russel;
Wi’ shilpit look and shiverin’ heart,
And throats as dry’s a whissel.
O for a drink of something cool,
Says ane, for Pm maist faintin’;
Then let’s go in, another says,
For my puir head’s just rentin,
