&nbspThe Devil believes that the Lord will come,
       &nbspStealing a march without beat of drum,
About the same time that he came last,
On an Old Christmas-day in a snowy blast:
Till he bids the trump sound neither body nor soul stirs,
For the dead men's heads have slipt under their bolsters.


       &nbspOh! ho! brother Bard, in our churchyard,
       &nbspBoth beds and bolsters are soft and green;
       &nbspSave one alone, and that's of stone,
       &nbspAnd under it lies a Counsellor keen.
'Twould be a square tomb, if it were not too long;
And 'tis fenced round with irons sharp, spear-like, and strong.


This fellow from Aberdeen hither did skip
With a waxy face and a blubber lip,
And a black tooth in front, to show in part
What was the colour of his whole heart.
       &nbsp       &nbspThis Counsellor sweet,
       &nbsp       &nbspThis Scotchman complete,
       &nbsp       &nbsp(The Devil scotch him for a snake!)
       &nbsp       &nbspI trust he lies in his grave awake.
       &nbsp       &nbsp       &nbspOn the sixth of January,
       &nbspWhen all around is white with snow,
       &nbspAs a Cheshire yeoman's dairy,
       &nbsp       &nbspBrother Bard, ho! ho! believe it, or no,
       &nbspOn that stone tomb to you I'll show
       &nbspTwo round spaces void of snow.
I swear by our Knight, and his forefathers' souls,
That in size and shape they are just like the holes
       &nbspIn the house of privity
       &nbspOf that ancient family.
On those two places void of snow,
There have sat in the night for an hour or so,
Before sunrise, and after cock-crow,
He kicking his heels, she cursing her corns,
All to the tune of the wind in their horns,
       &nbspThe Devil and his Grannam,
       &nbspWith a snow-blast to fan 'em;
Expecting and hoping the trumpet to blow,
For they are cock-sure of the fellow below