Ken ye na the wee laddie gaun sprinklin’
ay, hear ye na his trickie tinklin’
be ye so auld ye na hae an inkling
hard abeigh the sink
eyes closed sae ye na see them twinkling
as he gaed a drink?
queer, na like other laddie boys
who fain work not their wicked toys
’plashin’ Manhattans, ‘n Rob Roys
Gurglin’ charmin’ juice
fin’ him tro the party noise
drainin’ his bonny goose
He widdles nae cow milk nor tea
but only fair auld Scots whiskey
ne’er port or wine gi’e he
but ’tis hardly a matter
his dearest member bless’d be
none fain do’t better
Come, we shall a’be drinkin’ a toast
wi’ the wee Bonny Boy, our host
pourin’ liquid fire fra his post
for gud, na badder
an’ dinna quit, but gae his most
’til empty were his bladder