Will ye gang to the Calton Jail, Doctor And count o'er the sheep wi' me, You'd think them a' black sheep, Doctor, But they're white compared to me. Of a' the sheep I've seen, Doctor, It's yours must bear the bell For they're a' on twa legs, Doctor, And you've horned them a' yersel'. Your flock is scanty and thin, Doctor, They scanty are and few. They're a' ga'en to leave ye, Doctor, - I fear it is ow're true. O what will ye do then, Doctor, Ye'll preach to an empty kirk, Yer horns ha'e frightened them a', Doctor, An' they tak' ye for a stirk. Ye are a portly man, Doctor, A portly man to see; Had ye wrought sair for ye're bread, Doctor, Ye wad be as thin as me. Gin ye wad tak' advice, Doctor, Ye wad sound a quick retreat, Then blaw loud wi ye're horn, Doctor, And aff tae ye're country seat. Gin ye were as poor as ye say, Doctor, Ye wad ha'e nae silver plate, Ye'd gi'e up your country house, Doctor, And work baith ear' and late. Ye maun try a new trade, Doctor, Since the auld ane does nae pay, You've a shrill voice o' your ain, Doctor, Ye might cry Curds and Whey. It wad be like ye're auld trade, Doctor, For ye're sermons are as weak as milk, Then put on ye're auld cloak, Doctor, And aff wi' ye're gown o' silk. You've gowd in baith pockets, Doctor, An silk linings on ye're gown; But if ye horn us mair, Doctor, You'd better leave the Town. For we're mostly married men, Doctor, The batchelors are but few - It wasnae a Christian trick, Doctor, To be put to the horn by you. Ye're son's a wanton wag, Doctor, Your horns he canna carry - Then put them in the fire, Doctor, Or send them tae old Harry. I wad hae said auld Nick, Doctor, But ye're a Gospel man - O tak' your horns aff our Backs, Doctor, And we'll pay ye wha we can.
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