on a scotch bard, gone to the west indies

a' ye wha live by sowps o' drink,

a' ye wha live by crambo-clink,

a' ye wha live and never think,

e, mourn wi' me!

our billie 's gien us a' a jink,

an' owre the sea!

lament him a' ye rantin core,

wha dearly like a random splore;

nae mair he'll join the merry roar;

in social key;

for now he's taen anither shore.

an' owre the sea!

the boniesses weel may wiss him,

and in their dear petitions ce him:

the widows, wives, an' a' may bless him

wi' tearfu' e'e;

for weel i wat they'll sairly miss him

that's owre the sea!

o fortune, they hae room to grumble!

hadst thou taen aff some drowsy bummle,

wha can do nought but fyke an' fumble,

'twad been nae plea;

but he was gleg as ony wumble,

that's owre the sea!

auld, cantie kyle may weepers wear,

an' stain them wi' the saut, saut tear;

'twill mak her poor auld heart, i fear,

in flinders flee:

he was herureat mony a year,

that's owre the sea!