If anes they get a taste o’ yon,
Though by the laird,
The toy-mutch maun then gae on,
Nae mair bare-hair’d.
Yet wanton Venus, that she-b—h,
Does a’ our senses sae bewitch,
An’ fires our blood wi’ sic an itch,
That aftentimes,
There is nae help but to commit,
Some ill-far’d crimes.