8
Ye wastern swells, baith ane and a'
Lord Kel—n noo come trae your ha',
In mournful weeds lament the ca'
Took puir Rab hame;
The epicures may hide their heads
When they hear his name:
Ae simmer morning, ere the sun
The aught hour clock had scarcely rung,
The Briggate bakers they've aft sung
Rab's glorious taster,
Sax pints o' milk and ninety scones
Was his digester.
Ye wights i' the ither side o' Styx,
Charon on that river claims his rights,
And so will Rab wi' a' his might,
Baith drunk an' sober;
He'll toom your pantries day and night,
Frae Sept'mber t' October.
Ye fairies, kelpies, ane an' a',
Ye maister deils, baith great an' sma',
Be sure and watch oor Rabbie Ha',
And guide him weel,
Or else your bannocks he'll mak' sma',
And pinch your meal.
