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Sic unco' backs, and deadly whacks,I never saw the like man,Lost hands and heads, cost them their deeds,that fell at Preston-Dyke man.
That afternoon when a' was done,I gade to see the fray man;But I had wist what after past,I'd better staid awa man:On Seaton sands wi' nimble hands,they pick'd my pockets bare man:But I wish ne'er to prie sic fear,for a' the sum and mair man.
THE MINSTRAL.
Keen blaws the wind o'er Donnacht-head,The snaw rives drives snellie thro' the dale;The Gaberlunzie (illegible text)irls my seeckAnd, shiv ri g tells his warfu' tale.
Cauld is the sight, let me inA dinne let your minstrel fa',And di na let is his winning sheetBe sae hi g but a wreath o' snaw
Full (illegible text)ninety winters seenAnd pip'd whar gor-cocks whirring flew,
