“Then with new keenness wad they caper, He sliely smudg’d to see them vaper; And, if some glakit girl shou’d snapper, He’d gi’ a wink, Fie lads, quoth he, had aff, ne’er stap her, She wants a drink. “If a young swankie, wi’ his joe, In some dark nook play’d bogle-bo, John shook his head, and said, why no; Can flesh and blood Stand pipe and dance and never show Their metal good. “Not country squire, nor lord, nor laird, But for John Hasty had regard; With minstrels mean he ne’er wad herd; Nor fash his head; Now he’s received his last reward— Poor man he’s dead. “He hated a’ your sneaking gates, To play for bear, for pease, or ates; His saul aspir’d to higher fates, O mensefu’ John! Our tears come rapping down in spates, Since thou art gone. “Whan other pipers steal’d away, He gently down his join wad lay: Nor hardly wad tak’ hire for play, Sic was his mense! We rair aloud the ruefu’ day That took him hence. “John, whan he play’d ne’er threw his face, Like a’ the girning piper race; But set it aff wi’ sic a grace, That pleas’d us a’; Now dull and drierie is our case Since John’s awa’. “Ilk tune, mair serious or mair gay, To humour he had sic a way; He’d look precise, and smile and play, As suited best; But Death has laid him in the clay— Well may he rest. “A fiddle spring he’d let us hear, I think they ca’d it “Nidge-nod-near,” He’d gi’ a punk, and look sae queer, Without a joke, You’d swore he spoke words plain and clear, At ilka stroke. “It did ane good to hear his tale, O’er a punch bowl, or pint o’ ale; Nae company e’er green’d to skaill, If John was by; Alas! that sic a man was frail, And born to die. “But we his mem’ry dear shall mind, While billows rair, or blaws the wind; To tak’ him hence Death was no kind— O dismal feed! We’ll never sic anither find, Since Johnie’s dead.