Then up she rose, pat on her claes,
And lookit out through the lock-hole;
‘O, by my sooth,’ then quoth the lass,
‘Our mare has gotten a braw big foal!’
17
‘Come had thy peace, thou foolish lass,
The moon’s but glancing in thy eye;
I’ll wad my hail fee against a groat,
It’s bigger than eer our foal will be.’
18