Hech, sirs! we badly could bide loss him,
For should this world vindictive toss him.
Or ony hizzie dare to boss him.
Clean gyte he’d set her;
The deil himsel’, he daur’dna cross him,
Faith, he ken’d better!
Let any man, o’ any station,
But wink at fraud, or wrong the nation,
E’en gowd, nor place, ’twas nae temptation
To sic a chiel,—