Their visage wither'd, lang an' thin,
An' sour as ony slaes: sloes
The third cam up, hap-stap-an'-lowp, hop-step-and-jump
As light as ony lambie,
An' wi' a curchie low did stoop, curtsey
As soon as e'er she saw me,
Fu' kind that day.
Wi' bonnet aff, quoth I, ‘Sweet lass,
I think ye seem to ken me;
I'm sure I've seen that bonnie face,