Gen. Do you know what’s bidden for his head?
Thirty thousand pound, a bra’ sum indeed!
Prutish, quo’ Donald, it’s no worth a straw,
Her ain sound conscience is better nor’t a’:
Tho’ I’d got Scotland and England, a’ for my pains,
I wadna see him hurt, for your muckle gains.
He’s a good civil shentleman, his life on me threw,
Wad I kill him, or drown him, or gie him to you.
And deil care what ye do, he’s now far awa’,
The win ran awa’ wi’m, the like you ne’er saw: