Though it look’d cankered sour and grim,
Like ony elf.
Then whisp’ring now to me she harked,
Indeed your hips they should be yarked,
Nae mair Mess John, nor dare ye Clarkit,
Faith ye hae ca’d
Your hogs into a bonny markit,
Indeed my lad.
But tell me, man, (I should say master,)
What muckle deil in your way chas’d her?