Whase life is like a weel-gaun mill, Supplied wi' store o' water, The heapet happer's ebbing still, And still the clap plays clatter, Hear me, ye venerable core, As counsel for poor mortals That frequent pass douce Wisdom's door For glaikit Folly's portals; I for their thoughtless, careless sakes Would here propone defences Their donsie tricks, their black mistakes, Their failings and mischances.

Donsie, reckless.

The Lowland Scotch has donsie, "unfortunate, stupid.