O! can'le licht's baith braw and bricht At e'en when bars are drawn, But can'le licht's a dowie sicht When dwinin' i' the dawn. Yet dawn can bring nae wearier day Than I hae dree'd yestre'en,...
Yersel' is't? Imphm! Man that's bad! A kin' o' thinness o' the blude? Gaed aff las' nicht intil a dwam? Keep's a'! But that's rale nesty, Tam! An' lossin' taste noo for the dram?...
Not mine to let the hair grow long, and talk In raptured accents of the Higher Things, Of all the purple Polyanthus bears, And beating wings. (Oh no! Nothing of that sort!) ...
[It is hoped that all Scottish characteristics known to the Southron are here: pawkiness and pride of race; love of the dram; redness of hair; eldership of, and objection to instrumental music in the Kirk; hatred of the Sassena...
He's a muckle man, Sandy, he's mair nor sax fit A size that's no' handy for wark i' the pit, But frae a' bad mis-chanters he'd aye keepit free Excep'in' that nicht he'd a fire in his e'e. ...