The Book of Poetry, tr. by James Legge, [1876], at sacred-texts.com
2"Lat flee, and bring them hame to me,
An’ sic a dish as ye sail pree.
In comin’ times as ower the strings
Your noddin’ heed in rapture hings,
Supreme ower care, nor fasht wi’ fears,
We’ll baith grow auld in worth and years, p. 94
3"An’ when we meet the friends ye like,
I’ll gie to each some little fyke;—
The lasses beads, trocks to their brithers,
An’ auld-warld fairlies to their mithers.
Some knickknack lovin’ hands will fin’
To show the love that dwalls within.