E'en weel is he 'at ever was bworn!
He's free frae aw' this bitterment and scorn [scworn].
What! mun I still be fash'd wi' stragglen sheep,
Wi' far-fetche'd sighs, and things I said asleep?
Still shamfully left snafflen by mysel,
And still, stil dogg'd wi' the damn'd name o'mell?

Whare's now the pith (this luive! the Duice ga wi't)
The pith I show'd whene'er we struive to beat?
Whan a lang lwonin through the cworn I meade;
And bustlin far behind the leave survey'd?

Dear heart! that pith is geane, and comes nea mair
Till Betty's kindness sal the loss repair:
And she's net like (how sud she?) to be kind,
Till I have freely spoken out my mind,
Till I have learnt to feac the maiden clean,
Oil'd my slow tongue, and edg'd my sheepish een.

A buik theer is - a buik - the neame - sham faw't!
Something o'compliments, I think, they caw't -
'At meakes a clownish lad a clever spark:
O hed I this! this buik wad dea my wark!
And I's resolv'd to hav't whatever't cost.-
My flute; for what's my flute if Betty'd lost?
But if sae bonny a lass but be my bride,
I need not any comfort lait beside.