Tom Linton was bworn till a brave canny fortune,
His auld fadder screap'd aw the gear up he cud;
But Tom, country booby, luik'd owre hee abuin him,
And mix'd wi' the bad, nor e'er heeded the gud;
At the town he'd whore, gammle, play hell, and the deevil,
He wad hev his caper, nor car'd how it com;
Then he mud hev his greyhounds, guns, setters, and hunter,
And king o' the cockers they aw cursen'd Tom.

I think I just see how the lads wad flock roun him,
And, oh! they were fain to shek Tom by the han!
Then he'd tell how he fit wi' the barbers and bullies,
And drank wi' the waiter till nowther cud stan:
His watch he wad shew, and his list o' the horses,
And pou out a guinea, and offer to lay,
Till our peer country lads grew uneasy and lazy,
And Tom cud ha'e coax'd hawf the parish away.

Then he drank wi' the squire, and laugh'd wid his worship,
And talk'd o' the duke, and the deevil kens whee;
He gat aw the new--fangl'd oaths i' the nation,
And mock'd a peer beggar man wantin an ee;
His fields they were morgag'd; about it was whisper'd;
A farmer was robb'd nit owre far frae his house;
At last aw was selt his auld fadder had toil'd for,
And silly Tom Linton left nit worth a sous.

His fortune aw spent, what! he'd hae the laird's dowter,
But she pack'd him off wid a flee in his ear;
Neist thing, an auld comrade, for money Tom borrow'd,
E'en pat him in prison, and bad him lig theer:
At last he gat out, efter lang he had suffer'd,
And sair had repented the sad life he'd led:
Widout shun till his feet, in a sowdger's auld jacket,
He works on the turnpeyke reet hard for his bread.

Now folly seen intui, ragg'd, peer, and down--hearted,
He toils and he freets, and keen wants daily press;
If cronies reyde by, wey, alas! they've forgot him,
For whee can remember auld friends in distress?
O pity, what pity, that, in ev'ry county,
Sae mony Tom Lintons may always be found!
Deuce tek aw girt nwotions, and whurligig fashions,
Contentment's a kingdom, aye, aw the warl round!