| |
| A’ YE wha live by sowps o’ drink, | |
| A’ ye wha live by crambo-clink, | |
| A’ ye wha live and never think, | |
| Come, mourn wi’ me! | |
| Our billie ’s gien us a’ a jink, | 5 |
| An’ owre the sea! | |
| |
| Lament him a’ ye rantin core, | |
| Wha dearly like a random splore; | |
| Nae mair he’ll join the merry roar; | |
| In social key; | 10 |
| For now he’s taen anither shore. | |
| An’ owre the sea! | |
| |
| The bonie lasses weel may wiss him, | |
| And in their dear petitions place him: | |
| The widows, wives, an’ a’ may bless him | 15 |
| Wi’ tearfu’ e’e; | |
| For weel I wat they’ll sairly miss him | |
| That’s owre the sea! | |
| |
| O Fortune, they hae room to grumble! | |
| Hadst thou taen aff some drowsy bummle, | 20 |
| Wha can do nought but fyke an’ fumble, | |
| ’Twad been nae plea; | |
| But he was gleg as ony wumble, | |
| That’s owre the sea! | |
| |
| Auld, cantie Kyle may weepers wear, | 25 |
| An’ stain them wi’ the saut, saut tear; | |
| ’Twill mak her poor auld heart, I fear, | |
| In flinders flee: | |
| He was her Laureat mony a year, | |
| That’s owre the sea! | 30 |
| |
| He saw Misfortune’s cauld nor-west | |
| Lang mustering up a bitter blast; | |
| A jillet brak his heart at last, | |
| Ill may she be! | |
| So, took a berth afore the mast, | 35 |
| An’ owre the sea. | |
| |
| To tremble under Fortune’s cummock, | |
| On a scarce a bellyfu’ o’ drummock, | |
| Wi’ his proud, independent stomach, | |
| Could ill agree; | 40 |
| So, row’t his hurdies in a hammock, | |
| An’ owre the sea. | |
| |
| He ne’er was gien to great misguidin, | |
| Yet coin his pouches wad na bide in; | |
| Wi’ him it ne’er was under hiding; | 45 |
| He dealt it free: | |
| The Muse was a’ that he took pride in, | |
| That’s owre the sea. | |
| |
| Jamaica bodies, use him weel, | |
| An’ hap him in cozie biel: | 50 |
| Ye’ll find him aye a dainty chiel, | |
| An’ fou o’ glee: | |
| He wad na wrang’d the vera deil, | |
| That’s owre the sea. | |
| |
| Farewell, my rhyme-composing billie! | 55 |
| Your native soil was right ill-willie; | |
| But may ye flourish like a lily, | |
| Now bonilie! | |
| I’ll toast you in my hindmost gillie, | |
| Tho’ owre the sea! | 60 |
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