For a cauld kirk-hole.
But every ane tell’st just like a sang,
That yon’s the gate we have to gang,
For me to do it, I think nae lang,
If I can do better.
For I trow my Mither thinks it nae sang,
What needs we clatter.
But thanks to death ay for the futer,
That did not let her get the Suter,
For about her gear wad been a splutter,