Yon Alex lied, crawed Iain Gray,
Wi' his sleekit lang tung o' siller;
Tae the Scots parliament he did say,
That he kenned nocht o' any missin' pris'ner;
But he's found oot, the whey faced knobheid-
That Alex, the parly did no' mislead.
No, wha this tale o' truth shall read,
Ilk man and mother's son take heed;
Whene'er to drink you are inclin'd,
Or Gordon Broon runs barefoot in your mind,
Think! ye may buy joys o'er dear -
Remember Iain Gray's nightmare.
