The dove she is a harmless burd, she flays without a gaa;
An we’s baith lay in ae bed, an ye’s lay nist the waa.’
a.
15
‘Hold off yer hands, young man,’ she says, ‘an dou not me perplex;
I winnë gae to my bed till ye tell me qustens six;
. . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . .
a.
16