Classic Poem

Chorus

O An ye were dead gudeman,
A green turf on your head, gudeman,
I wad bestow my widowhood
Upon a rantin Highlandman.—
There 's sax eggs in the pan, gudeman,
There 's sax eggs in the pan, gudeman;
There 's ane to you, and twa to me,
And three to our John Highlandman.—
?O an ye &c.
A sheep-head 's in the pot, gudeman,
A sheep-head 's in the pot, gudeman;
The flesh to him the broo to me,
An the horns become your brow, gudeman.—
Chorus to the last verse—

Sing round about the fire wi' a rung she ran,
An rownd about the fire wi' a rung she ran:
Your horns shall tie you to the staw,
And I shall bang your hide, gudeman.—