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　　On A Scotch Bard, Gone To The West Indies

　　A' ye wha live by sowps o' drink,

　　A' ye wha live by crambo-clink,

　　A' ye wha live and never think,

　　Come, mourn wi' me!

　　Our billie 's gien us a' a jink,

　　An' owre the sea!

　　Lament him a' ye rantin core,

　　Wha dearly like a random splore;

　　Nae mair he'll join the merry roar;

　　In social key;

　　For now he's taen anither shore.

　　An' owre the sea!

　　The bonie lasses weel may wiss him,

　　And in their dear petitions place him:

　　The widows, wives, an' a' may bless him

　　Wi' tearfu' e'e;

　　For weel I wat they'll sairly miss him

　　That's owre the sea!

　　O Fortune, they hae room to grumble!

　　Hadst thou taen aff some drowsy bummle,

　　Wha can do nought but fyke an' fumble,

　　'Twad been nae plea;

　　But he was gleg as ony wumble,

　　That's owre the sea!

　　Auld, cantie Kyle may weepers wear,

　　An' stain them wi' the saut, saut tear;

　　'Twill mak her poor auld heart, I fear,

　　In flinders flee:

　　He was her Laureat mony a year,

　　That's owre the sea!

　　He saw Misfortune's cauld nor-west

　　Lang mustering up a bitter blast;

　　A jillet brak his heart at last,

　　Ill may she be!

　　So, took a berth afore the mast,

　　An' owre the sea.

　　To tremble under Fortune's cummock,

　　On a scarce a bellyfu' o' drummock,

　　Wi' his proud, independent stomach,

　　Could ill agree;

　　So, row't his hurdies in a hammock,

　　An' owre the sea.

　　He ne'er was gien to great misguidin,

　　Yet coin his pouches wad na bide in;

　　Wi' him it ne'er was under hiding;

　　He dealt it free:

　　The Muse was a' that he took pride in,

　　That's owre the sea.

　　Jamaica bodies, use him weel,

　　An' hap him in cozie biel:

　　Ye'll find him aye a dainty chiel,

　　An' fou o' glee:

　　He wad na wrang'd the vera deil,

　　That's owre the sea.

　　Farewell, my rhyme-composing billie!

　　Your native soil was right ill-willie;

　　But may ye flourish like a lily,

　　Now bonilie!

　　I'll toast you in my hindmost gillie,

　　Tho' owre the sea! Poems and Songs of Robert Burns