Tune--"_Auld Sir Symon._"
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ir Wisdom's a fool when he's fou,Sir Knave is a fool in a session;He's there but a 'prentice I trow,But I am a fool by profession. My grannie she bought me a beuk,And I held awa to the school;I fear I my talent misteuk,But what will ye hae of a fool? For drink I would venture my neck,A hizzie's the half o' my craft,But what could ye other expect,Of ane that's avowedly daft? I ance was ty'd up like a stirk,For civilly swearing and quaffing;I ance was abused in the kirk,Fer touzling a lass i' my daffin. Poor Andrew that tumbles for sport,Let naebody name wi' a jeer;There's ev'n I'm tauld i' the courtA tumbler ca'd the premier. Observ'd ye, yon reverend ladMaks faces to tickle the mob;He rails at our mountebank squad,Its rivalship just i' the job. And now my conclusion I'll tell,For faith I'm confoundedly dry;The chiel that's a fool for himsel',Gude L--d! he's far dafter than I.
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