"I wadna pity your poor steed,
"Tho' it were tied to a thorn;
"For if ye wad gain my love the night,
"Ye wad slight me ere the morn.
"For I ken you by your weel-busked hat,
"And your merrie twinkling e'e,
"That ye're the laird o' the Oakland hills,
"An' ye may weel seem for to be."
"But I am not the laird o' the Oakland hills,
"Ye're far mista'en o' me;