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8
The sclates are hurling down in hun’ers
Thc dadding door and winnock thun’ers,
But, ho! my hat wy hat’s awa’!
L—d help’s! the Sawpit’s down and a’!
Rax me your hand-hech! how he granes,
I fear your legs are broken banes.
I tauld you this; but, dei’l mak’ matter!
Ye thought it a’ but idle clatter;
Now, see! ye misbelieving sinners!
Your bloody shins-your Saw in flinners;
And round about yaur lugs the ruin,
That your demented folly drew on.
Experience ne’er sae sicker tells us,
As when she lifts her rung and fells us.
FINIS
