“Can ye thynke that the flower o’ the Mylke suld bloom
For a beggarlye loon lyke hymme?
“Can ye thynke that ane haughtye dame lyke her
Coulde looke wi’ a kyndlye e’e
On ane quha for everye placke that he spens,
Or wastes, maun sorn on me?”
“An’ div ye thynke,” cryet the wrathfu’ Hughe,
“It’s noo my turne to speer—
That ever a leal heartyt lassie could lo’e
A sumph for the sake o’ his gear?