It spak right howe: ‘My name is Death, hollow
But be na fley'd.’—Quoth I, ‘Guid faith, frightened
Ye're maybe come to stap my breath;
But tent me, billie: heed, fellow
I red ye weel, tak care o' skaith, advise, harm
See, there's a gully!’ big knife
‘Gudeman,’ quo' he, ‘put up your whittle, knife
I'm no design'd to try its mettle;
But if I did—I wad be kittle ticklish
To be mislear'd—if mischievous