And that this is mysel, by a glance ye may see.”
“Why, then,” cried the farmer, “the thing’s vastly odd.
“But twa hours ago, sir, your double was sitting
At Dawson’s fire-side,—faith! as I thoucht, half fou,—
And ilk ane at hand thoucht it time to be flitting,
When ye cursed and blasphemed till the candle burned blue.”
“Why, Saunders, it’s surely been Sawtan ye’ve seen,
The foul thief himsel, I could wad a gray groat;
He staw my gray mare;—just turn back, my auld friend,
Till I strip the foul thief of his sanctified coat.