Sin' I began to nick the thread,
An' choke the breath:
Folk maun do something for their bread, must
An' sae maun Death.
‘Sax thousand years are near-hand fled, well-nigh
Sin' I was to the hutching bred; butchering
An' mony a scheme in vain's been laid
To stap or scaur me; stop, scare
Till ane Hornbook's ta'en up the trade,