Nor dribbles o’ drink ring through the draff,
Nor pickles o’ meal rins thro’ the mill e’e—
And werena my heart’s licht, I wad dee.
His titty she was baith wylie and slee:
She spied me as I cam owre the lea;
And then she ran in, and made a loud din—
Believe your ain e’en, and ye trow not me.
His bonnet stood ay fu’ round on his brow,
His auld ane look’d ay as well as some’s new
But now he lets ’t wear ony gait it will hing,