5
For, hark, I’ll tell you what they think,
Since I left handling pen an’ ink,
Wae worth that weary soup o’ drink
He lik’d sae weel,
He drank it a’, left not a clink
His throat to swill.
He lik’d, still sitting on his doup,
To view the pint or cutty stoup,
And sometimes lasses overcoup
Upo’ their keels ;
This made the lad at length to loup,
And tak his heels.
Then was it not a grand presumption
To ca’ him Doctor o’ the function?
He dealt too much in barley-unction
For his profession:
He never took a good injunction
Frae kirk or session.
And to attend he was not willing,
His school, sae lang’s he had a shilling,
But lov’d to be where there was filling
Good punch or ale;
For him to rise was just like killing,
Or first to fail.
His fishing wand, his sneeshing box,
A fowling-piece, to shoot muir-cocks.
And hunting hares thro’ craigs and rocks.
This was his game,
Still left the young anes, so the fox
Might worry them.
