Noo — nae anither hurl on yon,
I'm tellin ye — ca-cannie,
Ye'd think the siller grew on trees!
Oh — there's thon affa mannie;
It's “Ye'll dae this,” an “Ye'll dae yon”:
(He's jist a perfeck scunner,
A sax month on the commattee
It seems mair like a hunner!)

Fa's thon, that's drapt the caber noo?
Yon drochle o a chiel?
He's nae frae hereaboots ye say ...
By God, it's jist as weel!

Mebbe McFadden's gaun aboot —
I mine on him, langsyne,
As weel set up a brosie lad
As iver graced Abyne.
It's watter doon the burn, that aince,
His name wis linked wi mine.

Yons niver him!
Oh, damn the bit!
His bunnet's aa skweejee ...
His sgian-dubh is aa askew,
An loshty, sae is he!
Aathing considered,
Lord be thanked,
He didna mairry me.