Youth's way is to take its fill-O!
Down, down, derry-do!

So his cup he drains and he shakes his reins,
And rides his rake-helly way-O!
She was sweet to woo and most comely, too,
But that was all yesterday-O!
Down, down, derry-do!

The lad started forward with something akin to a shiver.

"Have done," he cried, in a voice of loathing, "or, if croak
you must, choose a ditty less foul!"

"Eh?" The ruffler shook back the matted hair from his lean,
harsh face, and a pair of eyes that of a sudden seemed ablaze
glared at his companion; then the lids drooped until those eyes
became two narrow slits - catlike and cunning - and again he
laughed.

"Gad's life, Master Stewart, you have a temerity that should
save you from grey hairs! What is't to you what ditty my fancy
seizes on? 'Swounds, man, for three weary months have I curbed
my moods, and worn my throat dry in praising the Lord; for
three months have I been a living monument of Covenanting zeal
and godliness; and now that at last I have shaken the dust of
your beggarly Scotland from my heels, you - the veriest milksop
that ever ran tottering from its mother's lap would chide me
because, yon bottle being done, I sing to keep me from waxing
sad in the contemplation of its emptiness!"