She said, "Good e'en, ye nettles tall,
Just there where ye grow at the dike;
If the auld carline my mother was here,
Sae weel's she would your pates pike.
"How she would stap you in her poke,
I wot at that she wadna fail;
And boil ye in her auld brass pan,
And of ye make right good kail.
"And she would meal you with millering
That she gathers at the mill,