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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