Dalriggin wis sleekit — he'd teeth like a meer's,
A snicher tae match them — a tongue like a shears,
That'd clip ye tae size — he'd the braidth o' yer claith,
Ye'd be thrimmles an thrummles afore ye drew braith.

He'd the cut o' yer character — doon tae the mark,
Frae the tip o' yer coat, till the tail o' yer Sark,
Far ither's ramgumption stops short at their neive,
(Or the soles o' their buits, like the sype frae a seive),
His hoose, like his heid, wis an ill rowin pirn,
Ye'd ging in wi a grin an cam oot wi a girn.

His stories wis legion — ill thochted forby,
Fa bladded the cattleman's wife, an the wye
That yon tink o' a tractorman swickit the grieve,
(Fin dirt's in the diggin, fowk's quick tae believe)

The pot an the kettle, bein' baith o' them black,
He'd claith fur the cuttin frae abody's back.

The neater the needle, the sairer the stob,
The wyver's bin wippit as ticht as a wob,
Noo there's nae clippit cloots for Dalriggin tae heed,
Daith's winnerfu skeely at snippin the threid.