Whan Alistair McAllister
Was born at Corsie Hill,
The doctor said: Put on his breeks
And pack him off to sküle.'
And lang or his third year was by
He plodded at the plew
Cairted the muck, and herded kye,
And swack't the barley brew.
Whan but a loon he stüde attour
The riggin o' the house
Wi' shüthers like a barn-door
And a beard like a whinbuss,
He'd mash a neep in ilka lüfe:
A rackle was but tow:
Ca' down a stane-dyke wi' ae bowff,
Or ae putt o' his pow.
Wha'd seen him brak a birky tree
Maist like a willy-wand,
Had little thocht that he wud be
Brocht to sae puir an end.
Eftir a bowl o' pottit-hoch
Sweel'd doun wi' Atholbrose,
He taen the hiccups unco roch
And cudna mak them lowse.
For saxty nichts and saxty days
He bokit loud and sair:
And was a bing o' banes and claes
When liftit for the lair.
The guidly folk at Corsie Hill
Were richt proud o' the loon:
And thocht the Lord had düne them ill
To tak him or fu' grown.