Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face, Great Chieftain o'the Puddin-race! Aboon them a' ye tak your place, Painch, tripe, or thairm: Weel are ye wordy of a grace As lang's myarm.
A chieftain to the Highlands bound Cries 'Boatman, do not tarry! And I'll give thee a silver pound To row us o'er the ferry.'
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