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But whisht!—for mair I canna speak!
The tears come rappin' doun my cheek!
To mark her grave sae cauld an' bleak!
The green grass growin'!—
But, Lord, keep her frae Hornie's creek,
Black, sooty, lowin'!
Then O fareweel to feasting rare,
An' scrieving cracks that drave aff care,
Fareweel to rantin' late an' ear',
Sae blyth an' frisky;
An' eke fareweel for ever mair
To Papish Whisky!
VERSES,
Written on a Window of the Inn at Carron.
By Robert Burns.
We cam na here to view your warks,
In hopes to be mair wise,
But only, lest we gang to hell,
It may be nae surprise:
But whan we tirl'd at your door,
Your porter dought na hear us;
Sae may, shou'd we to hell's yetts come,
Your billy Satan sair us!
