And he stuck like a burr, though campsterie he fand her,
While the minister cried, “There’s been thieves here, gude ——!”
“Fie, Tibby rise,” roared Mess John, loud as thunder,
“The mischief’s come o’er us, we’re herriet, undone;
The barn’s broke, the dog’s loose, the mare’s aff, and yonder
She’s rinnin’—fie! bring me my hat, coat, and shoon!”
His claes huddled on, wi’ his staff in his han’,
He out at the yett wi’ a belly-flaught flew;
While the stour that his mare raised in clouds o’er the lan’,
Turned into a glaur-drop ilk clear blob o’ dew.