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'Till he was drawing near the door,Then to escape the cudgel ranBut was not miss'd by the good man,Wha lent him on his neck a lounder,That gart him o'er the threshold founder.Darkness soon hid him frae their sight;Ben flew the miller in a fright:'I trow,' quoth he, 'I laid well on;But wow he's like our own Mess Johnǃ'
FINIS.
Air, Printed by J. & P. Wilson, 1802.
