Ye're a maiden marrowless.
Yer purse wis steekit when that wis peyed for
Yer thrift's as guid as the profit o a yeld hen.
Yer tongue is nae scandal.
Yer tongue rins aye afore yer wit.
Yer tongue wags like a lamb's tail.
Yer will's law, qo the tyler tae the clockin hen, when she picked oot his twa een, an cam for his nose.
Yer wit will never worry ye.
Ye're a day efter the fair.
Yer breid's baked, ye can hing up yer girdle.
Ye're a deil an nae cou, like the man's bull.
Yer een's greedier than yer guts.
Ye're a fine sword, qo the fuil tae the wheat braird.
Yer een's no marrows.
Ye're a fit ahint the foremaist.
Ye'll no herry yoursel with your ain hands.
Ye'll no let it be for want o cravin.
Ye'll no mend a broken nest bi dabbin at it.
Ye'll no sell your hen in a rainy day.
Ye'll play a smaa gemme afore ye stand oot.
Ye'll ne'er cast saut on his tail.
Ye'll see the gowk in yer sleep.
Ye'll neither dance or haud the candle.
Ye'll sit till ye sweat an wirk till ye freeze.
Ye'll never be auld wi sae muckle honesty.