Prood mune, ye needna thring your shouder there,
And at your puir get like a snawstorm stare,
It’s yours—there’s nae denyin’t—and I’m shair
You’d no’ enjoy the evenin’ much the less
Gin you’d but openly confess!
Dod! It’s an eaten and a spewed-like thing,
Fell like a little-bodies’ changeling,
And it’s nae credit t’ye that you s’ud bring
The like to life—yet, gi’en a mither’s love,
—Hee, hee!—wha kens hoo’t micht improve?...