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 And while I live to blaw a blast

you'se never be a wanter,

Since your're so free to marry me,

you're bonny Rob the Ranter  

Come all and listen, the news is sad,

for our young men are surely mad

There flesh is very nigh their bones—

they feed your lasses on tough scones.

Now since you have the tooth-ach ta'en,

and ye can hardly walk your lane:

The scones we would have rather boil'd,

than ha'en your teeth so sorely spoil'd.

Young lasses you have now ga'en mad:

to tell your teeth so soon turned bad;

You'll no get sale but in the dark—

for we'er afraid you have lost mark.

You must go now and burn your jaws,

then file your teeth like the auld saws;

For if that you cannot eat scones,

you'll no can gang through our Carse loans.