3
Feint a bodle cared she for a magistrate's life,
My consciences slie was just gaun to
drown me.
If again in her clutches I ever should pop,
Poor Matty may live to deplore me;
But were I at Glasgow, I'd stick by my shop,
Like my father, the deacon, before me.
Now to think o them hanging a bailie so
high,
To be picked at by corbies and burdies;
Had I them at Glasgow, my conscience! I'd
try
How their craigs stood the weight o' their
hurdies.
But stop, Nicol, stop, man na, that maunna be
For if some ane to hame wad restore ye,
In the Saut-Market safe, ye'd forget and forgie,
Like your father, the deacon, before ye.
In favour o' Matty a word let me say,
Of Lunnun quean's she's worth a dozen;
Through the foul paths o' darkness she leads
me the way,
Though of Limmerfield she's the Laird's
cousin.
To match wi' my Matry I'm no that aboon,
And young Nicol I shall adore him,
If he to his friends but as gratefu' do prove
