But eh! the torments o' that place! and the reik that gangs up for ever an' ever, smorin' (smothering) the stars! And my Anerew doon i' the hert o' 't cryin'! And me no able to win till him! O Lord! I canna say thy will be done.

But dinna lay 't to my chairge; for gin ye was a mither yersel' ye wadna pit him there.

O Lord! I'm verra ill-fashioned.
I beg yer pardon.

I'm near oot o' my min'.

Forgie me, O Lord! for I hardly ken what I'm sayin'.