Towser — got on a wirkin bikk,
The Lord kens whaur,
B' a sire that wis three quarts wolf,
Touch, gin ye daur.

He'd seek yer haun, sud the humour suit,
A roch, weet tongue, an a powkin snoot,
At a stranger's fit, his birsse wid rise,
Bare his teeth, at their unkent wyes.
Mell like a wraith, wi the oorie nicht,
Teem his plate, wi a thankless dicht.

Towser missin — a yowe miscairriet.
Brunt o' the blame — wis't him that hairriet?
Back o' the byre — will he cam this gait?
A gun on the airm ... a lang, lang, wait.
Back o' the byre,
A tail wags blate,
A shot i' the dark,
And a wild thing, quate.