An' this hoose and yaird was ance my father's, and sae he had that door throu, they tell me.

An' I thocht gin it suld be open, it wad be a fine thing for me, to haud fowk ohn seen me.

But it was verra ill-bred to you, mem, I ken, to come throu your yaird ohn speirt leave.

I beg yer pardon, mem, an' I'll jist gang back, and roon' by the ro'd.

This is my fiddle I hae aneath my airm.