The drive his sinfu' drift the sooner He maun begin wi' -- "please your honour' (Flattery wha can resist!) Ye hae a hunder' bows or twa, O' London dons, I never saw Ony sae gude amaist
Your honour, sir, (and claw'd his head) I'd like a few for next years seed, If ye would let me hae them; -- How mony want ye quo' the laird, John thought a wee, an' fand his beard, Twa bows an ye could gi'e them?
Twa bows, nae doubt, I might could spare, But a' the crap was sald fern-year To honest Walter Bryce, At half a guinea, every bow; Now, gin ye like, this year's to you I'll gi'e at the same price.
But to disperse them a' in taits, Thro' different han's at different rates Altho' the price were doubled, Twa bows to this man, three to that, Four to a third -- 'deed John that's what I Ne'er could wi' be troubled, --
Weel, Weel, we'se no insist quo John, (Lengthen'd his face and gied a groan), It mak's but little matter; (A saint ye'd think, if ane's alive, But faith how mony beans make five That John Deil ane kens better.)
Your honour's weel-being I wish (We mauna throw awa the dish Thinks he tho' Crummie fling) Lang may your usefu' life be spar'd We subjects a' had better far'd If ye had been the king.
For Ne'er did mortal fill a throne Since that wise monarch Solomon That could wi' you compare. For wisdom, sense, and honesty; Your honour, muckle may ye hae, That muckle ay grow mair.
In the laird's neeve John ramm'd his mill, The laird ca'd in another gill, (Things now are looking up); Thinks John, I see he's ta'en the bait, The fault's my ain if now I let The precious moment slip.