It's Gibbie 'at has to forgie 'im an' syne me.

But my man tellt me no to lat him up, an' hoo am I to be a wife sic as ye wad hae, O Lord, gien I dinna dee as my man tellt me! It wad ill befit me to lat my auld Robert gang sae far wantin' his denner, a' for naething.

What wad he think whan he cam hame! Of coorse, Lord, gien ye tellt me, that wad mak a' the differ, for ye're Robert's maister as weel's mine, an' your wull wad saitisfee him jist as weel's me.

I wad fain lat him gang, puir chiel! but I daurna.
Lord, convert him to the trowth.

Lord, lat him ken what hate is .-- But eh, Lord! I wuss ye wad tell me what to du.