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 Too aft my thirsty-throat to cool,

I went to visit the punch bowl,

Which makes me now wear reddish wool

Instead o’ black;

Or I must foot the cutty-stool

Wi’ deil a plack.

The chappen stoup, the pint an’ gill,

Too aft I caused for to fill,

Ay loving those wha wou’d sit still,

An’ wet the mouth,

Ne’r minding that the Tullo-hill,

Leads people south.

O but that loving laird Kingswells,

My blessings flow where his foot swells,

Lang life to him whate’er befals,

God be his guide,

He’s cur’d a thousand thirsty sauls,

An’ mine beside.

O had I but thae days again,

Which I sae freely spent in vain,

I’d strive some better for to ken,

What future chance

Shou’d blaw me here out o’er the main,

And sae near France.

But since what ails maun ay befal

The chiel that will be prodigal;

When wasted to the very spaul

He turns his tusk,

For want o’ comfort to his saul,

On hungry husk.