“I’m sure it’s nae mair than an hour since I saw ye
At Bourtree Brae-head, and that’s eight miles awa!”
And he rubbit his een as he cried out, “Foul fa’ me!
For glammery’s come o’er me, or else you’re grown twa.
“And where is your mare, for she stood at the door,
Wi’ her bridle-reins drawn through a ring in the wa’,
At Dawson’s door-cheek, where I saw her before
I had drunk deoch-an-dorus wi’ Donald M‘Craw.”
“Ye saw me!” said the minister; “how could that be,
When I’ve only proceeded thus far on my road?