An' darklins grapit for the bauks, in the dark, groped, beams
And in the blue-clue[12] throws then,
Right fear'd that night. frightened
An' aye she win't, an' aye she swat, wounded, sweated
I wat she made nae jaukin'; know, trifling
Till something held within the pat, kiln-pot
Guid Lord! but she was quaukin'!
But whether 'twas the Deil himsel,
Or whether 'twas a bauk-en', beam-end
Or whether it was Andrew Bell,