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4
The magic bowl can lift the soul
Aboon the warld and a’ its wrangs.
Blythe, &c.
The days o’ man are but a span,
This mortal life a passing dream,
Nought to illume the dreary gloom,
Save love an’ friendship’s sacred glean
Blythe, &c.
Then toom your glass to my sweet lass,
And niest we’ll turn it o’er to thine:
The glowin’ breast that loes them best
Shall dearest ever be to mine.
Blythe, &c.
An’ here’s to you, my friend sae true,
May discord ne’er a feeling wound!
An’ should we flyte, ne’er harbour spite,
But in a bowl be’t quickly drown’d.
Blythe, &c.
Now rap and ring, an’ gar them bring
The biggest stoupfu’ yet we’ve seen;
Why should we part when hand an’ heart
At ilka bumper grows mair keen?
Blythe, &c.
