ah nick! ah nick! it is na fair,

first showing us the tempting ware,

bright wines, and bonie lasses rare,

to put us daft

syne weave, unseen, thy spider snare

o hell's damned waft.

poor man, the flie, aft bizzes by,

and aft, as chance he comes thee nigh,

thy damn'd auld elbow yeuks wi'joy

and hellish pleasure!

already in thy fancy's eye,

thy sicker treasure.

soon, heels o'er gowdie, in he gangs,

and, like a sheep-head on a tangs,

thy girning laugh enjoys his pangs,

and murdering wrestle,

as, dangling in the wind, he hangs,

a gibbet's tassel.

but lest you think i am uncivil

to plague you with this draunting drivel,

abjuring a' intentions evil,

i quat my pen,

the lord preserve us frae the devil!

amen! amen!