The way o’ transgressors is hard;
There cometh a day
The Wicked will get their reward,
The Devil his pay.
Cauld Death is the wages o’ Sin:
Stents finished, we rue:
The thread, tho’ sae pleasant to spin,
Has connached the woo’.
As soon as we've emptied the caup
The lawin's to clear;
Tho’ thistles be only the crap
The sawer maun shear.
Sae let us consider it weel
Ere joinin’ the fling,
The dancer when tired o’ the reel
Maun pay for the spring.
Then coont on the Lawin’, the Lawin’, the Lawin’,
Keep mind o’ the Lawin’, forget na the score;
We pay what we're awin’, we're awin’, we're awin’,
We pay a’ we're awin’ when Death's at the door.