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For he began now to be fleed, She'd wile the honours frae his head, Syne with a ſtern and canker'd look, He thus reprov'd his brother Jouk. Briſtle. Thou vile diſgrace of our forbears, Wha lang with valiant dint of weirs, Maintain'd their rights 'gainſt a' intruſions Of our auld faes the Roſycrucians, Doſt thou deſign at laſt to catch Us in a girn, with this baſe match, And, for the hauding up thy pride, Upon thy brithers' riggins ride: I'll ſee you hang'd, and her the gither, As high as Haman in a tether, Ere I with my ain Bonnet quat, For any borrow'd beaver hat, Whilk I, as Roſie takes the ſikes, Maun wear or no juſt as ſhe likes: Then let me hear nae mair about her, For if ye dare again to mutter, Sic vile propoſals, in my hearing, Ye need na truſt to my forbearing; For ſoon my beard will tak a low, And I ſhall crack your crazy pow. Bard. This ſaid, brave Briſtle ſaid nae mair, But cock'd his Bonnet with an air, Wheel'd round with gloomy brows and muddy, And left his brither in a ſtudy. CANTO