To start up till her feet, and her petticoats to tye,
‘We’ll go no more to Conland, the winter-time to lye.’
8
Then over moss and over muir sae cleverly she ran,
And over hill and over dale, without stockings or shoon;
The men pursued her full fast, wi mony shout and cry,
Says, Will ye go to Conland, the winter-time to lye.
9
‘Wae to the dubs o Duffus land, that eer they were sae deep;
They’ve trachled a’ our horsemen and gart our captain sleep;