At last he fell--they heard him pech
But saw nor heard na mair--
They did'na wait to ask him if
The part he hurt was sair;
But owre the dyke they maistly flew,
Syne yont the Crafts like stour,
Whar on the grass they lay and laughed,
And joked for maist and hour.
Till Jock said he na supper had,
That he was now gaun hame--
That he was as a whistle tume;
As tume as Johnnie's wame;
And Robie said he could na stan'
That he was maist clean gane,
His brawns he said gaed flappin round
And round about the bane.
But whether Sandy gaed straucht hame
Or no, there is some doubt,
For on neist morn, cencerning him,
A something leaked out;
The outs and ins I canna tell--
Some mystery about pouther--
Pate Bryce scarce put the kettle on,
When it flew owre his shouther.
Printed at Warwick's Job Office.