She floatit fu’ mony a mile,
Past cottage an’ village an’ toon,
She’d an awfu’ time astride o’ the gate,
Though it seemed to gree fine wi’ the great muckle skate,
An’ the lum hat wantin’ the croon!

A fisher was walkin’ the deck,
By the licht o’ his pipe an’ the mune,
When he sees an auld body astride o’ a gate,
Come bobbin’ alang in the waves wi’ a skate,
An’ a lum hat wantin’ the croon!

“There’s a man overboord!” cries he,
“Ye leear!” says she, “I’ll droon! 
A man on a boord!  It’s a wife on a gate,
It’s auld Mistress Mackintosh here wi’ a skate,
An’ a lum hat wantin’ the croon!”

Was she nippit to death at the Pole? 
Has India bakit her broon? 
I canna tell that, but whatever her fate,
I’ll wager ye’ll find it was shared by a skate,
An’ a lum hat wantin’ the croon!

There’s a moral attached to my sang,
On greed ye should aye gie a froon,
When ye think o’ the wife that was lost for a gate,
An’ auld fish-hake an’ a great muckle skate,
An’ a lum hat wantin’ the croon!

THE PAWKY DUKE.

[It is hoped that all Scottish characteristics known to the Southron are here:  pawkiness and pride of race; love of the dram; redness of hair; eldership of, and objection to instrumental music in the Kirk; hatred of the Sassenach; inability to see a joke, etc., etc.  An undying portrait is thus put on record of the typical Scot of the day.]

There aince was a very pawky duke,
Far kent for his joukery-pawkery,
Wha owned a hoose wi’ a gran’ outlook,
A gairden an’ a rockery. 
Hech mon!  The pawky duke! 
Hoot ay!  An’ a rockery! 
For a bonnet laird wi’ a sma’ kailyaird
Is naethin’ but a mockery!

He dwalt far up a Heelant glen
Where the foamin’ flood an’ the crag is,
He dined each day on the usquebae
An’ he washed it doon wi’ haggis. 
Hech mon!  The pawky duke! 
Hoot ay!  An’ a haggis! 
For that’s the way that the Heelanters dae
Whaur the foamin’ flood an’ the crag is!

He wore a sporran an’ a dirk,
An’ a beard like besom bristles,
He was an elder o’ the kirk
And he hated kists o’ whistles! 
Hech mon!  The pawky duke! 
An’ doon on kists o’ whistles! 
They’re a’ reid-heidit fowk up North
Wi’ beards like besom bristles!

His hair was reid as ony rose,
His legs was lang an’ bony,
He keepit a hoast an’ a rubbin’-post
An’ a buskit cockernony! 
Hech mon!  The pawky duke! 
An’ a buskit cockernony! 
Ye ne’er will ken true Heelantmen
Wha’ll own they hadna ony!

An’ if he met a Sassenach,
Attour in Caledonia,
He gart him lilt in a cotton kilt
Till he took an acute pneumonia! 
Hech mon!  The pawky duke! 
An’ a Sassenach wi’ pneumonia! 
He lat him feel that the Land o’ the Leal
’S nae far frae Caledonia!