Gin ye maun bumpit be!
And waly, waly, my Stroke sae true,
Ye leuk unpleasauntlie!_

_O hae ye suppit the sad sherrie
That gars the wind gae soon;
Or hae ye pud o' the braw bird's-e'e,
Ye be sae stricken doun?_

I hae na suppit the sad sherrie,
For a' my heart is sair;
For Keiller's still i' the bonnie Dundee,
And his is halesome fare.

But I hae slain our gude Captain,
That c'uld baith shout and sweer,
And ither twain put out o' pain--
The Scribe and Treasurere.

There's ane lies stark by the meadow-gate,
And twa by the black, black brig:
And waefu', waefu', was the fate
That gar'd them there to lig!

They waked us soon, they warked us lang,
Wearily did we greet;
'_Should he abrade_' was a' our sang,
Our food but butcher's-meat.

We hadna train'd but ower a week,