The dominie thocht it an unca thing,
The Mither tongue.
Like Sabbath braws, he glorified gentility
An’ hauled ma kail daily throw the rick
Dubbin’ the Doric orra, coorse, ill-fared
A peer realtion o’ the Southern spik
Set by unsung.

The mannie’s deid or, if he’s nae,
By God! he should be!
Mim-moued, his cantin’ quate.
Nae doot, he’s since jeloused,
It’s deeds that mak the man — nae wards
A thochtie late.