7
At fairis he playit befoír the spoir-men;
All gaillie graithit in thair geir, puhen
Steil Bonetis, Jackis and Swordis sale clear then,
Like ony beid;
Now quha sall play befoir sic weir-men,
Sen Habbie's deid?
At Clark-playis quhen he wont to cum,
His pype playit trimlie to the drum,
Lyke bikes of beis he gart it bum,
And tuneit his reed;
But now onr pypis may a sing dum,
Sen Habbie's deid?
And at hors races mony a day
Befoir the black, the brown, and gray,
He gart his pypis quhen he did play
Baith skirl and scried,
Now all sic pastýmis quite away,
Sen Habbie's deid.
He countit was, a weild wicht man,
And ferslie at fute-ball he ran,
At every game the grie he wan,
For pith and speid,
The lyke of Habbie washa than,
But now he's deid.
And then besyde his valziant actis,
At bridalis he wan mony plackis,
He bobbit aye behint fowks bakis,
And schuke his heid,
Now we want mony merrie crakis,
Sen Habbie's deid:
