Standin' in Hunter's Bar ae nicht, gey fu',
A man crushed through the crood and searched my face,
'Guid Christ! '‘he stammered oot,' and is it you?'
I shook his hand, but him I couldna trace.
A thick-set man wi' wide and empty e'en,
And big cheek-banes ; a scar upon his broo;
A greasy jacket, fastened wi' a preen;
And ragged breeks—his kness baith shinin' through.
'Ye dinna ken me — eh ! — D'ye no' ha'e min'
O' Aggie Broon?' At the mention o' her name
I seemed to sober a' at yince. —' Aye, fine
Ye ken me. — I'm the bloke wha stole your ‘flame'.'
And for a month his words swan in my brain —

'She's deid, of course—died wi' her seeventh wean.'