It’s fitter far to hang the rope—
It draws out like a telescope;
’Twad tak’ a dreadfu’ length o’ drop
To settle her annuity.
Will poison do it? It has been tried,
But be ’t in hash or fricassee,
That’s just the dish she can’t abide,
Whatever kind o’ gout it hae.
It’s needless to assail her doubts;
She gangs by instinct, like the brutes,