Page:Dominie depos'd.pdf/5

 For, hark, I’ll tell you what they think,

Since I left handling pen an’ ink,

Wae worth that weary soup o’ drink

He lik’d sae weel,

He drank it a’, left not a clink

His throat to swill.

He lik’d, still sitting on his doup,

To view the pint or cutty stoup,

And sometimes lasses overcoup

Upo’ their keels ;

This made the lad at length to loup,

And tak his heels.

Then was it not a grand presumption

To ca’ him Doctor o’ the function?

He dealt too much in barley-unction

For his profession:

He never took a good injunction

Frae kirk or session.

And to attend he was not willing,

His school, sae lang’s he had a shilling,

But lov’d to be where there was filling

Good punch or ale;

For him to rise was just like killing,

Or first to fail.

His fishing wand, his sneeshing box,

A fowling-piece, to shoot muir-cocks.

And hunting hares thro’ craigs and rocks.

This was his game,

Still left the young anes, so the fox

Might worry them.