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Hoo upo' airth are ye to du yer duty by them, an' render yer accoont at the last, gien ye dinna tak till ye yer pooer an' reign? Ilk man 'at 's in ony sense a king o' men is bun' to reign ower them in that sense. I ken little aboot things mysel', an' I ha'e no feelin's to guide me, but I ha'e a wheen cowmon sense, an' that maun jist stan' for the lave." A silence followed.
Ye wad gar the fowk lauch." "What's the richt flooer to tak' to the kirk, Annie?" "Ay! ay! Sic like's what?" asked Cupples, for he had found in Annie a poetic nature that delighted him. "Ow! sic like's thyme and southren-wood, and maybe a bittie o' mignonette." "Ay! ay! And sae the cowmon custom abuses you, young, bonnie lammies o' the flock.
There's gane the twa bonniest I ever saw, an' I s' lay my heid there's mair poetry in auld man faced Miss Horn nor in a dizzin like them. Ech! but it's some sair to bide. It's sair upon a man to see a bonny wuman 'at has nae poetry, nae inward lichtsome hermony in her. But it's dooms sairer yet to come upo' ane wantin' cowmon sense!
Robert stepped out of the hole and held his tongue. At that moment, Annie was slipping past him to run back to Tibbie. He made a pounce upon her and grabbed her by the shoulder. "Nae mair o' this, Annie!" he said. "Come hame for cowmon dacency, and dinna gang stravaguin' in a nicht like this, naebody kens whaur." "A' body kens whaur," returned Annie.
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