Jock an Sandy rigged fur kirk —
They vowed, they wadna missed it.
Twa chiels tae bid a third adieu,
The dear departit, kistit.

Quo Sandy — “He's awa frae't aa,
His gear is easy pairtit,
Fur sic a spen'thrift chiel wis Tam,
A thummel-heid wid cairt it.”

Bit Jock said — “Man, an open haun
Is better nor a grippy.
Tho Tam wis bare o' aa bit friens,
I wyte, ye hidna ony.”

Said Sandy, (wha'd nae luck wi quines
Through lack o' luiks, an fooshian) —
“Gin I'd a preen, fur ilkie deem

Tam wooed — they'd stap a cushion.”
Jock tholed the accusation derk, Bit keepit unca quate,
(For roon the nick he'd tirred his sark,
Ae nicht, wi cripple Kate)
Ay, Jock an Tam hid aa the luck,
Weel-ben in houghmagandie,
A curled snoot, wi' oot a doot,
Wis aa the jaads gaed Sandy.

An ben the hymns, the sundry sins,
Agin Tam's name wis listit,
As Sandy spak, Jock sat an grat,
At thocht o' Tammie kistit.

“Afore ye set anither steen, upon the cairn o's name”
 Quo Jock, “We're nane o's perfect —
Ye'd dae weel redd up yer ain.”

I hope, fin Daith comes chappin,
An I'm boxed, afore the fowk,
God disna think like Sandy,
Bit he taks the side o' Jock!