It’s a wonnerfu’ thynge that ’sponsible menne
Maun fechte or they weel be fou.”
Fu’ slawlye did Hughe Herryes ryse,
An’ the never a worde he sayde,
But he gloom’t an’ he tore his gluve wi’ his teeth,
As furthe frae the room he gaed.
He muntyt his gude grey meare i’ the closse,
An’ he gallopyt aff lyke wudde.
“Eh, sirs!” quo auld Wullye Smyth, “Eh, sirs!
This never maun come tille gude;