'Weel then,' says Donald, 'I submit,
But ae repuest grant, if it's fit;
That is, since my left hand must go,
Drive't aff at ae most desperate blow;
No on the saft green, there perhaps
Ye'll pine me sair by several chaps,
But ye'll at ance mair siccar do't
On yonder smooth tree's spreading root.
Puir Donald's prayer was heard, he then
Made bare his left hand shackle— bane,
And on the tree root laid it quâking:
The robber now his aim was taking—
Baith hands raised the vengfu' whittle,
And, as he drew with awful ettle,
Sly Donald slipped his arm a-jee,
When firm the sword stuck in the tree.
'Have at ye now, ye cruel wretch,'
Quoth Donald, 'I am now your match!'
With that he caught him by the collar,
Gied him a jerk that garred him gollar;
Donald's blood boiled in a passion,
He gied his face a horrid bashin,
His cravate Donald squeesed sae tight,
That faith he strangled him maist outright.
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