There's no sae muckle harm in the land deils, when a's said and done.

Lang syne, when I was a callant in the south country, I mind there was an auld, bald bogle in the Peewie Moss.

I got a glisk o' him mysel', sittin' on his hunkers in a hag, as gray's a tombstane.
An', troth, he was a fearsome-like taed.

But he steered naebody.

Nae doobt, if ane that was a reprobate, ane the Lord hated, had gane by there wi' his sin still upon his stamach, nae doobt the creature would hae lowped upo' the likes o' him.