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HALLOW E'EN.

BY THE SAME.

The Morn is our gude Hallow-E'en,
And our Court a' will ride;
Gin ony Maiden wins her man,

Then he may be his bride.

Old Ballad of the FAIRY COURT.

OF

Fa' the feftivals we hear,

Frae Handfel-Munday till New-year,

There's few in Scotland held mair dear

For mirth, I ween,

Or yet can boaft o' better cheer,

Than

Hallow-e'en.

* Hallow-E'en, or Holy-Eve, is the evening previous to the celebration of all Saints. That it is propitious to the rites of divination, is an opinion ftill common in many parts of

Scotland.

Langfyne, indeed, (as now in climes Where priests, for filler, pardon crimes,) The kintry 'round in Popish rhimes

Did pray and graen;

But cuftoms vary wi' the times,

At Hallow-e'en.

Rang'd 'round a bleezing ingle-side, Where nowther cauld nor hunger bide, The farmer's houfe, wi' fecret pride,

Will a' conveen;

For that day's wark is thrawn afide
At Hallow-e'en.

Plac'd at their head the gude-wife fits,
And deals 'round apples, pears, and nits;
Synes tells her guefts, how, at fic bits

Where he has been,

Bogles ha'e gart fowk tyne their wits

At Hallowe'en.

Griev'd, fhe recounts, how, bi mifchance, Puir Pooffy's forc'd a night to prance Wi' Fairies, wha, in thoufands, dance

Upon the green,

Or fail wi' Witches owr to France,
At Hallow-e'en.

Syne, iffu'd frae the gardy-chair, (For that's the feat of empire there,)

To kuir the table wi' what's rare,

Commands are gi’en;

That a' fu' daintily may fare

At Hallow-c'en.

And when they've tuim'd ilk heaped plate, And a' things are laid out o' gate,

To ken their matrimonial mate,

The youngsters, keen,

Search a' the dark decrees o' Fate

At Hallowe'en.

A' things prepar'd in order due,
Gofh guides! what fearfu' pranks enfue!
Some i' the kiln-pat thraw a clue,

At whilk, bedeen,

Their fweet-hearts bi the far-end pu'

At Hallow-e'en.

Ithers, wi' fome uncanny gift,
In ane auld barn a riddle lift,
Where thrice pretending corn to fift,

Wi' charms between,

Their joe appears, as white as drift,
At Hallow-e'en.

But, 'twere a langfome tale to tell The gates o' ilka charm and spell: Aince, gaun to faw hemp-feed himfel'

Puir Jock McLean,

Plump in a filthy peat-pot fell,

At Hallowe'en:

Haff-fell'd wi' fear, and drooked weel,
He frae the mire dught hardly fpeel;
But, frae that time, the filly chiel'
Did never grien

To caft his cantrips wi' the De'il,

At Hallow-e'en.

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O Scotland! fam'd for fcenes like this, That thy fous wauk where wisdom is,

Till death in everlasting bliss

Shall fteek their ein,

Will ever be the conftant wish

Óf

JOCKIE MEIN,

EPISTLE

EPISTLE

то

Mr. WALTER RUDDIMAN,*

HERE, honest WATTIE, may be seen

My hearty thanks to JOCKIE MEIN;
But envy or malicious spleen,

I do affure ye,

He needna care for critics keen,

Wi' a' their fury.

The Silver Gun, Hallow-e'en, &c. were feverally inserted in the Edinburgh Weekly Amusement; to the Publisher of which, this Epiftle, which is a short encomium on these pieces, Is addressed, vol. xliv.

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