On A Scotch Bard, Gone To The West Indies.

A' ye wha live by sowps o' drink,         A' ye wha live by crambo-clink,         A' ye wha live and never think,             Come, mourn wi' me!         Our billie's gien us a' a jink,             An' owre the sea.         Lament him a' ye rantin' core,         Wha dearly like a random-splore,         Nae mair he'll join the merry roar             In social key;         For now he's taen anither shore,             An' owre the sea!         The bonnie lasses weel may wiss him,         And in their dear petitions place him;         The widows, wives, an' a' may bless him,             Wi' tearfu' e'e;         For weel I wat they'll sairly miss him             That's owre the sea!         O Fortune, they hae room to grumble!         Hadst thou taen' aff some drowsy bummle         Wha can do nought but fyke and fumble,             'Twad been nae plea,         But he was gleg as onie wumble,             That's owre the sea!         Auld, cantie Kyle may weepers wear,         An' stain them wi' the saut, saut tear;         'Twill mak her poor auld heart, I fear,             In flinders flee;         He was her laureate monie a year,             That's owre the sea!         He saw Misfortune's cauld nor-west         Lang mustering up a bitter blast;         A jillet brak his heart at last,             Ill may she be!         So, took a birth afore the mast,             An' owre the sea.         To tremble under fortune's cummock,         On scarce a bellyfu' o' drummock,         Wi' his proud, independent stomach,             Could ill agree;         So, row't his hurdies in a hammock,             An' owre the sea.         He ne'er was gien to great misguiding,         Yet coin his pouches wad na bide in;         Wi' him it ne'er was under hiding:             He dealt it free;         The muse was a' that he took pride in,             That's owre the sea.         Jamaica bodies, use him weel,         An' hap him in a cozie biel;         Ye'll find him ay a dainty chiel,             And fou o' glee;         He wad na wrang'd the vera deil,             That's owre the sea.         Fareweel, my rhyme-composing billie!         Your native soil was right ill-willie;         But may ye flourish like a lily,             Now bonnilie!         I'll toast ye in my hindmost gillie,             Tho' owre the sea!