Your days of good service are now fairly ended
Your creaking old timbers won't stand till they're mended,
A rickle o' ruins and worm eaten boards,
Broke down with hard labor, and tied up with cords
Your trams are sae rotten, sae tottering and frail
They'll rive tae pieces when pierced with a nail
Your legs are disjointed, your ribs are knocked in;
And your trindle resembles the half quarter min,
The spokes thro' misfortune are broken and cracket;
The shod that protects them is worn sadle-baket;
To crown your disasters as shrives you expire
Your body and burden shall blaze in the fire.