To make us tame fools, and believe black is white, Sir?
All friends to our freedom that creature must hate
Who pockets three hundred a year from the state.’
‘Gad troth, maister Rattlesnake, why do you mantion,
With so much asperity, Sir, that word pansion?
The Doctor deserves na sic thing—but what then
In troth, I weel know many axcellent men,
Who never have thought it a shame or disgrace
T’accept a wee pansion or snug pratty place;
But then they have a’ sat doun selent as deeth—