And of thy talking let me be!
If thou does na end me this quarrel soon,
There is my glove, I'll fight wi' thee."
Then Christie Græme he stooped low
Unto the ground, you shall understand;—
"O father, put on your glove again,
The wind has blown it from your hand?"
What's that thou says, thou limmer loon?
How dares thou stand to speak to me?
If thou do not end this quarrel soon,