A week, but barely twa,
Three sonsie steeds they fared to seek,
That mightna gar them fa'.

They 've ta'en us ower the lang, lang coorse,
And wow! but it was wark;
And ilka coach he sware him hoorse,
That ilka man s'uld hark.

Then upped and spake our pawkie bow,
--O, but he wasna late!
'Now who shall gar them cry _Enow_,
That gang this fearsome gate?'

Syne he has ta'en his boatin' cap,
And cast the keevils in,
And wha but me to gae (God hap!)
And stay our Captain's din?

I stayed his din by the meadow-gate,
His feres' by Nuneham brig,
And waefu', waefu', was the fate
That gar'd them there to lig!

O, waly to the welkin's top!
And waly round the braes!
And waly all about the shop
(To use a Southron phrase).

Rede ither crews be debonair,