their capon craws an' queer “ha, ha's,”

they made our lugs grow eerie, o;

the hungry bike did scrape and fyke,

till we were wae and weary, o:

but a royal ghaist, wha ance was cas'd,

a prisoner, aughteen year awa',

he fir'd a fiddler in the north,

that dang them tapsalteerie, o.