My best belouit brother of the craft,

God! if je kneu the stait that I am in!

Thoght je be deif, I knou je ar not daft,

Bot kynd aneugh to any of jour kin;

If je bot sau me, in this winter win,

With old bogogers, hotching on a sped,

Draiglit in dirt, vhylis wat evin to the skin,

I trou thair suld be tears or we tua shed.

Bot maist of all, that hes my bailis bred,

To heir hou je, on that syde of the mure,

Birlis at the wyne, and blythlie gois to bed;

Forjetting me, pure pleuman, I am sure.

So, sillie I, opprest with barmie juggis,

Invyis jour state, that’s pouing Bacchus luggis.