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When twilight did my granny summon,
her prayers, douce honest woman!
Aft yont the dyke she's heard you bummin',
Wi' eerie drone;

Or, rustlin', thro' the boortries comin',
Wi' heavy groan.

Ae dreary, windy, winter night,
The stars shot down wi' sklentin' light,
Wi' you, mysel, I gat a fright

Ayont the lough;

Ye, like a rash-bush, stood in sight
Wi' waving sough.

The cudgel in my nieve did shake,
Each bristl'd hair stood like a stake,
When wi' an eldritch, stoor quaick-quaick-
Amang the springs,

Awa ye squatter'd, like a drake,
On whistling wings.

Let warlocks grim, and wither'd hags,
Tell how wi' you, on ragweed nags,
They skim the muirs and dizzy crags,
Wi wicked speed;
And in kirk-yards renew their leagues
Owre howkit dead.

Thence countra wives, wi' toil and pain,
May plunge and plunge the kirn in vain;
For, oh! the yellow treasure's taen
By witching skill;

And dawtit, twal-pint hawkie's gaen
As yell's the bill.

When thowes dissolve the snawy hooord,
And float the jinglin' icy boord,
Then water kelpies haunt the foord,
By your direction;

And 'nighted trav'llers are allur'd
To their destruction.

And aft your moss-traversing spunkies
Decoy the wight that late and drunk is:

The bleezin', curst, mischievous monkies
Delude his eyes,

Till in some miry slough he sunk is,
Ne'er mair to rise.

When masons' mystic word and grip
In storms and tempests raise you up,
Some cock or cat your rage maun stop
The youngest brother ye wad whip
Or, strange to tell!
Aff straught to hell!

Lang syne, in Eden's bonny yard,
When youthfu' lovers first were pair'd,
And all the soul of love they shar'd,
The raptur'd hour,

Sweet on the fragrant flow'ry sward,
In shady bow'r (7):

Then you, ye auld snec-drawing dog!
Ye came to Paradise incog,
And played on man a cursed brogue,
(Black be your fa!)

And gied the infant warld a shog,
'Maist ruin'd a'.

D'ye mind that day, when in a bizz,
Wi' reekit duds, and reestit gizz,
Ye did present your smoutie phiz
'Mang better folk,
And sklented on the man of Uzz
Your spitefu' joke?

And how ne gat him i' your thrall,
And brak him out o' house and hall,
While scabs and botches did him gall,
Wi' bitter claw,

And lows'd his ill-tongued, wicked scawl,
Was warst ava?

But a' your doings to rehearse,
Your wily snares and fetchin' fierce,
Sin' that day Michael did you pierce,
Down to this time,
Wad ding a Lallan tongue, or Earse,
In prose or rhyme.

And now, auld Cloots, I ken ye're thinkin',
A certain bardie's rantin', drinkin',
Some luckless hour will send him linkin'
To your black pit;

But, faith! he'll turn a corner jinkin',
And cheat you yet.

But, fare you weel, auld Nickie-ben!
Oh wad ye tak a thought and men'!
Ye aiblins might—I dinna ken-
Still hae a stake-
I'm wae to think upo' yon den,
Ev'n for your aake!

NEW-YEAR MORNING SALUTATION.

At brosses thou had ne'er a fellow For pith and speed;

The Auld Farmer's New-Year Morning But ev'ry tail thou pay't them hollow, Salutation to his Auld Alare laggie,

ON GIVING HER THE ACCUSTOMED RIPP OF

CORN TO HANSEL IN THE NEW YEAR.

A GUID New-year I wish thee, Maggie!
Hae, there's a ripp to thy auld baggie;
Tho' thou's howe-backit, now, and knaggie,
I've seen the day

Thou could hae gaen like onie staggie
Out-owre the lay.

Tho' now thou's dowie, stiff, and crazy,
And thy auld hide's as white's a daisy,
I've seen thee dappl't, sleek, and glaizie,

A bonny gray :

Whare'er thou gaed.

105

The sma' droop-rumpl't, hunter, cattle,
Might aiblins waur't thee for a brattle;
But sax Scotch miles thou try't their mettle,
And gar't them whaizle:

Nae whip nor spur, but just a wattle
O' saugh or hazle.

Thou was a noble fittie-lan',
As e'er in tug or tow was drawn!
Aft thee and I, in aucht hours' gaun,
In guid March weather,

Hae turn'd sax rood beside our hanʼ
For days thegither.

Thou never braindg't, and fech't, and fliskit,

He should been tight that daur't to raise thee | But thy auld tail thou wad hae whiskit,

Ance in a day.

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Tho' it was sma', 'twas weel-won gear,
And thou was stark.

When first I gaed to woo my Jenny,
Ye then was trottin' wi' minnie:
your
Tho' ye was trickie, slee, and funnie,
Ye ne'er was donsie;
But hamely, tawie, quiet, and cannie,
And unco sonsie.

That day ye pranc'd wi' muckle pride,
When bure hame my bonny bride:
ye
And sweet and gracefu' she did ride,
Wi' maiden air!

Kyle Stewart I could bragged wide,
For sic a pair.

Tho' now ye dow but hoyte and hoble,
And wintle like a saumont-coble,
That day ye was a jinker noble,
For heels and win'!

And ran them till they a' did wauble,
Far, far behin'!

When thou and I were young and skeigh,
And stable-meals at fairs were dreigh,
How thou wad prance, and snore, and skreigh
And tak the road!

Town's bodies ran, and stood abeigh,
And ca't thee mad.

When thou was corn't, and I was mellow,
We took the road aye like a swallow:

And spread abreed thy well-fill'd brisket,
Wi' pith and pow'r,

Till spritty knowes wad rair't and risket,
And slypet owre.

When frosts lay lang, and snaws were deep,
And threaten'd labour back to keep,

I gied thy cg a wee-bit heap

Aboon the timmer;

I ken'd my Maggie wad na sleep
For that, or simmer.

In cart or car thou never reestit;
The steyest brae thou wad hae fac't it;
Thou never lap, and sten't, and breastit,
Then stood to blaw;

But just thy step a wee thing hastit,
Thou snoov't awa.

My pleugh is now thy bairn-time a';
Four gallant brutes as e'er did draw;
Forbye sax mae I've sell't awa,

That thou hast nurst:
They drew me thretteen pund and twa,
The vera warst.
Monie a sair daurk we twa hae wrought,
And wi' the weary warl' fought !
And monie an anxious day I thought
We wad be beat!
Yet here to crazy age we're brought,
Wi' something yet.

And think na, my auld trusty servan',
That now perhaps thou's less deservin',
And thy auld days may end in starvin',
For my last fou,

A heapit stimpart, I'll reserve ane
Laid by for you.
We've worn to crazy years thegither;
We'll toyte about wi' ane anither
;
Wi' tentie care I'll flit thy tether,
To some hain'd rig,
Whare ye may nobly rax your leather,
Wi' sma' fatigue.

Halloween. (8)

UPON that night, when fairies light,
On Cassilis Downans (9) dance,
Or owre the lays, in splendid blaze,
On sprightly coursiers prance;
Or for Coleon the route is ta'en,

Beneath the moon's pale beams;
There, up the cove (10), to stray and rove
Amang the rocks and streams

To sport that night.

Amang the bonny, winding banks,
Where Doon rins, wimplin', clear,

Where Bruce (11) ance rul'd the martial ranks,

And shook his Carrick spear, Some merry, friendly, countra folks,

Together did convene,

To burn their nits, and pou their stocks,
And haud their Halloween

Fu' blythe that night.

The lasses feat, and cleanly neat,

Mair braw than when they're fine; heir faces blythe, fu' sweetly kythe, Hearts leal, and warm, and kin': The lads sae trig, wi' wooer-babs,

Weel knotted on their garten, Some unco blate, and some wi' gabs, Gar lasses' hearts gang startin'

Whiles fast at night.

Then, first and foremost, thro' the kail,
Their stocks (12) maun a' be sought ance;
They steek their een, and graip, and wale,
For muckle anes and straught anes.
Poor hav'rel Will fell aff the drift,

And wander'd thro' the bow-kail,
And you't, for want o' better shift,
A runt was like a sow-tail,

Sae bow't that night.

Then, straught or crooked, yird or nane,
They roar and cry a' throu’ther;
The vera wee-things, todlin', rin

Wi' stocks out-owre their shouther:
And gif the custoc's sweet or sour,
Wi' joctelegs they taste them;
Syne coziely, aboon the door,

Wi' cannie care, they've placed them
To lie that night.

The lasses straw frae 'mang them a'
To pou their stalks o' corn (13);
But Rab slips out, and jinks about,
Behint the muckle thorn:
He grippet Nelly hard and fast;
Loud skirl'd a' the lasses;
But her tap-pickle maist was lost,

When kuittlin' in the fause-house (14)
Wi' him that night.

The auld guidwife's weel-hoordet nits (15)
Are round and round divided,
And mony lads' and lasses' fates

Are there that night decided:
Some kindle, couthie, side by side,
And burn thegither trimly;
Some start awa wi' saucy pride,
And jump out-owre the chimlie
Fu' high that night.

Jean slips in twa wi' tentie e'e;
Wha 'twas, she wadna tell ;
But this is Jock, and this is me,
She says in to hersel':

He bleez'd owre her, and she owre him,
As they waud never mair part;
Till, fuff! he started up the lum,
And Jean had e'en a sair heart
To see't that night.

Poor Willie, wi' his bow-kail runt,
Was brunt wi' primsie Mallie;
And Mary, nae doubt, took the drunt,
To be compared to Willie.
Mail's nit lap out wi' pridefu' fling,

;

And her ain fit it burnt it
While Willie lap, and swoor, by jing,
'Twas just the way he wanted
To be that night.

Nell had the fause-house in her min,'
She pits hersel and Rob in ;
In loving bleeze they sweetly join,

Till white in ase they're sobbin'.
Nell's heart was dancin' at the view,
She whisper'd Rob to leuk for't:
Rob, stowlins, prie'd her bonny mou❜
Fu' cozie in the neux for't,
Unseen that night.

But Merran sat behint their backs,
Her thoughts on Andrew Bell;
She lea'es them gashin' at their cracks,
And slips out by hersel':
She through the yard the nearest taks,
And to the kiln she goes then,
And darklins graipit for the bauks,
And in the blue-clue (16) throws then
Right fear't that night.

And aye she win't, and aye she swat,
I wat she made nae jaukin';
Till something held within the pat,

Guid L-d! but she was quakin'!
But whether 'twas the deil himsel,
Or whether 'twas a bauk-en',
Or whether it was Andrew Bell,
She did na wait on talkin'
To spier that night.
Wee Jenny to her granny says,
"Will ye go wi' me, granny?
I'll eat the apple (17) at the glass,
I gat frae uncle Johnny:"

She fuff't her pipe wi' sic a lunt,
In wrath she was sae vap'rin',
She notic❜t na, aizle brunt

Her braw new worset apron
Out thro' that night.
'Ye little skelpie-limmer's face!
I daur you try sic sportin',
As seek the foul thief onie place,
For him to spae your fortune :
Nae doubt but ye may get a sight!
Great cause ye hae to fear it;
For monie a ane has gotten a fright,
And lived and died deleeret.
On sic a night.

Ae hairst afore the Sherra-moorI mind't as well's yestreen, was a gilpey, then I'm sure

I was na past fyfteen:

The simmer had been cauld and wat,
And stuff was unco' green;
And aye a rantin' kirn we gat,
And just on Halloween

It fell that night.

Our stibble rig was Rab M'Graen,
A clever, sturdy fallow :
He's sin' gat Eppie Sim w' wean,

That lived in Achmacalla :

He gat hemp-seed (18), I mind it weel,
And he made unco light o't;
But mony a day was by himsel',
He was sae sairly frighted
That very night."

Then up gat fechtin' Jamie Fleck,
And he swoor by his conscience,
That he could sow hemp-seed a peck;
For it was a' but nonsense.

;

The auld guidman raught down the pock,
And out a handfu' gied him
Syne bade him slip frae 'mang the folk,
Sometime when nae ane see'd him,
And try'd that night.

He marches through amang the stacks,
Tho' he was something sturtin:
The graip he for a harrow taks,

And hauls at his curpin ;

And every now and then he says,

"Hemp-seed I saw thee,
And her that is to be my lass,
Come after me, and draw thee
As fast this night."

He whistl'd up Lord Leonox' march,
To keep his courage cheery ;
Altho' his hair began to arch,

He was sae fley'd and eerie :
Till presently he hears a squeak,

And then a grane and gruntle; He by his shouther gae a keek, And tumbl'd wi' o wintle

Out-owre that night.

He roar'd a horrid murder-shout,

In dreadfu' desperation !

And young and auld cam rinnin' out,
And hear the sad narration :
He swoor 'twas hilchin Jean M'Craw,
Or crouchie Merran Humphie,
Till, stop-she trotted through them a'-
And wha was it but grumphie
Asteer that night!

Meg fain wad to the barn hae gaen,

To win three wechts o' naething (19); But for to meet the deil her lane,

She pat cut little faith in :
She gies the herd a pickle nits,
And twa red-cheekit apples,

To watch, while for the barn she sets,
In hopes to see Tam Kipples
That vera night.

She turns the key wi' cannie thraw,
And owre the threshold venturs;
But first on Sawny gies a ca',

Syne bauldly in she enters:

A ratton rattled up the wa',

And she cried, "L-d, preserve her!" And ran thro' midden hole and a’, And pray'd with zeal and fervour, Fu' fast that night.

They hoy't out Will, wi' sair advice

;

They hecht him some fine braw ane; It chanc'd the stack he faddom't thrice (20), Was timmer-propt for thrawin'; He taks a surly auld moss oak

For some black, grousome carlin; And loot a winze, and drew a stroke, Till skin in blypes cam haurlin' Aff's nieves that night.

A wanton widow Leezie was,

As canty as a kittlin;

But, och! that night, amang the shaws,
She got a fearfu' settlin'!

She thro' the whins, and by the cairn,

And owre the hill gaed scrievin,

Where three lairds' lands met at a burn (21),
To dip her left sark-sleeve in,
Was bent that night.

Whyles owre a linn the burnie plays,
As through the glen it whimpl't;
Whyles round a rocky scaur it strays;
Whyles in a wiel it dimpl't;
Whyles glitter'd to the nightly rays,
Wi' bickering, dancing dazzle;
Whyles cooyit underneath the braes,
Below the spreading hazel,

Unseen that night.

Amang the brackens, on the brae,
Between her and the moon,
The deil, or else an outler quey,
Gat up and gae a croon :

Poor Leezy's heart maist lap the hool;

Near lav'rock height she jumpit, But mist a fit, and in the pool Out-owre the lugs she plumpit, Wi' a plunge that night.

every

In order, on the clean hearth-stane,
The luggies three (22) are ranged,
And time great care is ta'en,
To see them duly changed:
Auld uncle John, wha' wedlock's joys
Sin' Mars' year did desire,
Because he gat the toom-dish thrice,
He heav'd them on the fire

In wrath that night.

Wi' merry sangs, and friendly cracks,
I wat they did nae weary:

And unco tales, and funny jokes,

Their sports were cheap and cheery; Till butter'd so'ns (23), wi' fragrant lunt, Set a' their gabs a-steerin'; Syne, wi' a social glass o' strunt, They parted aff careerin'

Fu' blythe that night. (24)

A Winter Light.

Poor naked wretches, wheresoe'er you are,
That bide the pelting of the pitiless storin!
How shall your houseless heads and unfed
sides,
[defend you
Your looped and windowed raggedness,
From seasons such as these?-SHAKSPEARE.

WHEN biting Boreas, fell and doure,
Sharp shivers thro' the leafless bow'r;
When Phoebus gies a short-lived glow'r
Far south the lift,

Dim-darkening thro' the flaky show'r,
Or whirling drift:

Ae night the storm the steeples rocked,
Poor labour sweet in sleep was locked,
While burns, wi' suawy wreaths up-
choked,

Wild eddying swirl,
Or thro' the mining outlet bocked,
Down headlong hurl.

Listening, the doors and winnocks
rattle,

I thought me on the ourie cattle,
Or silly sheep, wha bide this brattle
Ô' winter war,
[sprattle,
And through the drift, deep-lairing
Beneath a scaur.

Ilk happing bird, wee, helpless thing,
That in the merry months o' spring,
Delighted me to hear thee sing,

What comes o' thee!

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Ev'n you on murd'ring errands toil'd, Lone from your savage homes exil'd, The blood-stain'd roost and sheep-cot spoil'd

My heart forgets,

While pitiless the tempest wild
Sore on you beats.

Now Phoebe, in her midnight reign,
Dark muffled, view'd the dreary plain;
Still crowding thoughts, a pensive train,
Rose in my soul,

When on my ear this plaintive strain
Slow, solemn, stole :—

"Blow, blow, ye winds, with heavier gust!
And freeze, thou bitter-biting frost !
Descend ye chilly, smothering snows!
Not all your rage, as now united, shows
More hard unkindness, unrelenting,
Vengeful malice unrepenting,

Than heaven-illumined man on brother man

bestows!

See stern oppression's iron grip,
Or mad ambition's gory hand,

Sending, like blood-hounds from the slip
Woe, want, and murder o'er a land!
E'en in the peaceful rural vale,
How pamper'd Luxury, Flattery by her side,
Truth, weeping, tells the mournful tale,

The parasite empoisoning her ear, With all the servile wretches in the rear, Looks o'er proud property, extended wide; And eyes the simple rustic hind,

Whose toil upholds the glittering show,

A creature of another kind,

Some coarser substance, unrefined, Placed for her lordly use thus far, thus vile below.

Where, where is Love's fond, tender throe,
With lordly Honour's lofty brow,

The powers you proudly own?
Is there beneath Love's noble name,
Can harbour dark the selfish aim,
To bless himself alone!
Mark maiden innocence a prey

To love-pretending snares,
This boasted Honour turns away,
Shunning soft Pity's rising sway, [ers!
Regardless of the tears and unavailing pray-
Perhaps this hour in misery's squalid nest,
She strains your infant to her joyless
breast,
[rocking blast!

And with a mother's fears shrinks at the Oh ye! who, sunk in beds of down, Feel not a want but what yourselves

create,

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