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"Her leddyship wodnae hae ye playin' there lang your lane a saison syne, but thae days is done wi'; there's nae lugs for a tirlin' at the winnock whaur there's nae love at least wi' Mistress Leevie." Annapla heard the music with a superstitious terror; her eyes threatened to leap out of her head, and she clutched the arm of her adorer.
Supposing there should be in the unseen universe an evil spirit, an imp of malice and mischief, not Milton's Satan, but the Deil of Burns: Whyles ranging, like a roaring lion, For prey, a' holes an' corners tryin; Whyles on the strong-winged tempest flyin, Tirlin the kirks; Whyles in the human bosom pryin,
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