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

Did pray and graen; But customs vary wi' the times,

At Hallow-e'en.

Rang'd 'round a bleezing ingle-side, Where nowther cauld nor hunger bide, The farmer's house, wi' secret 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 guests, how, at fic bits

Where she has been, Bogles ha'e gart fowk tyne their wits

At Hallow-e'en.

Griev'd, she recounts, how, bi mischance,
Puir Pooffy's forc'd a night to prance
Wi' Fairies, wha, in thousands, dance

Upon the green,
Or fail wi' Witches owr to France,

At Hallow-e'en.

1

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

To kuir the table wi' what's rare,

Commands are gi'en; That'a' fu' daintily may fare

At Hallow-e'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 Hallow-e'en.

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

At whilk, bedeen,
Their sweet-hearts bi the far-end pu’

At Hallow-e'en.

Ithers, mi' fome uncanny gift,
In ane auld barà 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 langsome tale to tell The gates o’ilka charm and spell : Aince, gaun to saw hemp-feed himsel'

Puir Jock M.Lean, Plump in a filthy peat.pot fell,

At Hallow-e'en:

Haff-felld wi' fear, and drooked weel, He frae the mire dught hardly speel; But, frae that time, the filly chiel'

Did never grien To cast his cantrips wi' the De’il,

At Hallow-e'en.

O Scotland! fam'd for scenes like this,
That thy fous wauk where wisdom is,
Till death in everlasting bliss

Shall fteck their ein,
Will ever be the constant with

Óf

JOCKIE MEIN,

EPISTLE

E P S T L E

TU

Mr. WALTER RUDDIMAN*

Here, honeit Wattie, may be seen
My hearty thanks to Jockie MEIN ;
But envy or malicious spleen,

I do assure ye,
He needna care for critics keen,

WP a' their fury.

* The Silver Gun, Hallow-e'en, &c. were severally inserted in the Edinburgh Weekly Amusement; 10 the Publisher of which, this Epistle, which is a short encomium on these pieces, is addressed, vol. xliv.

His witty sang, wi' jokes fae fu', Slides juift awa like weel-teas'd woo, Sae tight and easy, faith there's few

Now in our day, Can chauut sae blithe, or fing fae true

To Ramsay's lay.

As I had got ye’r Magazine,
And glowring owr wi' eager ein,
I met wi' winsome Jockie MEIN,

And bless'd the lad
Syne hy'd me to our herds bedeen,

Wi' tidings glad.

How pleas'd was I sae eith to trace
A cheerfu'ness in ilka face ;
Sae suin's I shawn them a' the case,

And read it o'er,
They wish'd the callant meikle grace,

And gow'd galore.

How happily ilk shepherd reads
Sic tales, clad in plain Scottish weeds;
E'en bony lassies, wi' hiegh heads,

Do gladly hear
Sangs tun'd upo' their native reeds,

To them sae dear:

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They now expect ye'll ling sae rare, And oft describe a Whitsun' Fair,

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