She disna care a mite.
The weary pund, etc.
You spake, my Kate, of snaw-white webs,
Made o' your linkum twine,
But, ah! I fear our bonny burn
Will ne'er lave web o' thine.
The weary pund, etc.
Nay, smile again, my winsome mate;
Sic jeering means nae ill;
Should I gae sarkless to my grave,