a.
11
‘Hold off yer hands, young man,’ she says, ‘an yer folly gie our,
I winne come to your bed till ye gett to me things four;
. . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . .
a.
12
‘Ye gett to me a cherry that in December grou;
Leguays a fine silk mantell that waft gad never throu;