Oh love! how perfect is thy mystic art, / Strengthening the weak, and trampling on the strong, / How self-deceitful is the sagest part / Of mortals whom thy lure hath led along— / The precipice she stood on was immense, / So was her creed in her own innocence.

How sad and dark hearted In deep pain I pine, Since fortune has parted Her fondness from mine.

She calls him my mancubine.

I was just standin looking about me amang the lang hags that lead out frae the head o' the North Grain, and considering what could be wort of a' the sheep, when I noticed my dog, Reaver, gaun coursing away forrit as he had been setting a fox.