Gude pity me, because I'm little,
For though I am an elf o' mettle,
And can, like ony wabster's shuttle,
Jink there or here;
Yet, scarce as lang 's a guid kail whittle,
I'm unco queer.
And now thou kens our waefu'case,
For Geordie's Jurr we 're in disgrace,
Because we ‘ve stang'd her through the place,
And hurt her spleuchan,
For which we darena show our face
Within the clachan.
And now we 're dern'd in dens and hollows,
And hunted as was William Wallace,
Wi' Constables, those blackguard fallows,
And Sodgers baith;
But gude preserve us frae the gallows,
That shamefu' death!
Auld, grim, black-bearded Geordie's sell;
Oh, shake him o’er the mouth o' hell,
There let him hing, and roar, and yell,
Wi' hideous din,
And if he offers to rebel,
Then heave him in.
When Death comes in wi' glimmerin blink,
And tips auld druken Nanz the wink,
May Satan gie her arse a clink
Within his yet,
And fill her up wi' brimstone drink
Red, reeking, het.
There ‘s Jockie and the hav'rel Jenny,
Some Devil seize them in a hurry,
And' waff them in th' infernal wherry
Straught through the lake,
And gie their hides a noble curry,
Wi' oil of aik.
As for the Jurr, poor worthless body,
She 's got mischief enough already,
Wi' stranged hips, and buttocks bloody,
She 's suffer'd sair;
But may she wintle in a woodie
If she whore mair.