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Gin ye wush a douce body, auldfarrant and gash,     Unco' waukrife and couthie and braw, Ower eydent wi' daft clishmaclavers to fash,     Or to thole whigmaleeries ava; Mak's nae collieshangie wad fley a bit flee,     But is siccer and dour as a stot; Tak's the scone and the kebbuck and carries the gree;     Ye'll be spierin', gude faith! for a Scot.

And for His name’s sake keep yersel’ frae inordinate desires; hand your heart in baith your hands, carry it canny and laigh; dinna send it up like a bairn’s kite into the collieshangie o’ the wunds!

Pulling around me a sort of greatcoat I had made of my blanket, to cover my sulphur-coloured livery,—“A friend!” said I. “What like’s all this collieshangie?” said he.

I had never heard of a collieshangie in my days, but with the racket all about us in the city, I could have no doubt as to the man’s meaning.

Gentlemen, I’m all for making an end to this collieshangie.