That ony quine sud bring me doon,
I' faith — it's maist provokin,
I'm saft's a bap fin Belle's aroon,
She disna gie a docken!

I'd like tae fauld her tae ma breist,
(An muckle mair beside)
Bit dour's a rock — a crawless cock,
Ma hauns an tongue are tied.

I'm aff ma meat — I canna sleep,
It's coorse tae be sae thwarted,
Sin Belle got on fur dairy-deem,
I wish she'd niver started!

I caimb the toozles frae the tyke,
Its coat's the colour o' her hair,
I hap the calfie ower wi' strae,
An wish hersel wis lyin there.

I waited fur her, b' the kirk,
A rowth o' bonnie wirds I'd gaithered,
She stopped — bit I wis dry as dirt,
An, like a halflin, hummed an haivered.

She's speired the grieve gin I be ill?
(For hide nur hair o' me she's seen)
I'll fork the bales, I'll kepp the bull,
Bit canna face the dairy deem!