Sae ben I slinkit—hat i’ han’—
An’ there, beside the wee bit wunnock,
I saw a peerless maiden stan’,
Just pantin’ like a hare i’ panic.
Wi’ shapely form i’ braw black silk—
Lang curls as black’s the silk, an’ blacker—
A changefu’ cheek—a throat like milk.
An’ lown an’ pawkily I spak’ her.
I pled for my companions rouch—
I trow’t they couldna mean to fley her: