The Lord forgie me for lying!
A weel-stockèd mailen—himsel for the laird—
And marriage aff-hand, were his proffers:
I never loot on that I ken'd it, or cared,
But thought I might hae waur offers, waur offers,
But thought I might hae waur offers.
But what wad ye think? in a fortnight or less—
The deil tak his taste to gae near her!
He up the lang loan to my black cousin Bess,
Guess ye how, the jad! I could bear her could bear her,