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And hear the sad narration:

He swore 't was 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;
But for to meet the deil her lane,
She pat but 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 very night.

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

Syne bauldly in she enters:

A ratton rattled up the wa',

And she cried, "L-, preserve her!" And ran through midden-hole and a’, And prayed wi' zeal and fervour, Fu' fast that night.

They hoy't out Will, wi' sair advice; They hecht him some fine braw ane; It chanced, the stack he faddom't thrice, Was timmer-propt for thrawin';

He taks a swirly 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 through the whins, and by the cairn,
And owre the hill gaed scrieven,
Where three lairds' lands meet at a burn,
To dip her left sark-sleeve in,
Was bent that night.

Whyles owre a linn the burnie plays,
As through the glen it wimpl't;
Whyles round a rocky scaur it strays;
Whyles in a wiel it dimpl't;
Whyles glittered to the nightly rays,
Wi' bickering, dancing dazzle;
Whyles cookit 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 Leezie'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.

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

In wrath that night.

Wi' merry sangs, and friendly cracks,
I wat they did na weary;

And unco tales, and funny jokes,

Their sports were cheap and cheery ;
Till buttered so'ns, wi' fragrant lunt,
Set a' their gabs a-steerin';
Syne, wi' a social glass o' strunt,

They parted aff careerin'

Fu' blithe that night.

SECOND EPISTLE TO DAVIE,

A BROTHER POET.

AULD NEIBOR,

I'

'M three times doubly o'er your debtor, For your auld-farrant, frien'ly letter; Though I maun say 't, I doubt ye flatter, Ye speak sae fair:

For my puir, silly, rhymin' clatter

Some less maun sair.

Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle;
Lang may your elbock jink and diddle,
To cheer you through the weary widdle
O' war❜ly cares,

Till bairns' bairns kindly cuddle

Your auld gray hairs.

But, Davie lad, I'm red yeʼre glaikit ;
I'm tauld the Muse ye hae negleckit ;
And gif it's sae, ye sud be licket,
Until ye fyke;

Sic hauns as you sud ne'er be faiket,
Be hain't wha like.

For me, I'm on Parnassus' brink,
Rivin' the words to gar them clink ;
Whyles daez't wi' love, whyles daez't wi' drink,
Wi' jads or masons;
And whyles, but aye owre late, I think,
Braw sober lessons.

Of a' the thoughtless sons o' man,
Commen' me to the bardie clan ;
Except it be some idle plan

O' rhymin' clink,

The devil-hae 't (that I sud ban!)

They ever think.

Nae thought, nae view, nae scheme o' livin',
Nae cares to gie us joy or grievin';

But just the pouchie put the nieve in,

And while ought's there,

Then hiltie skiltie, we gae scrievin',
And fash nae mair.

Leeze me on rhyme! it's aye a treasure,
My chief, amaist my only pleasure,
At hame, a-fiel', at wark, or leisure;
The Muse, poor hizzie!

Though rough and raploch be her measure, She's seldom lazy.

Haud to the Muse, my dainty Davie :
The warl' may play you monie a shavie;
But for the Muse, she 'll never leave ye,
Though e'er sae puir,
Na, even though limpin' wi' the spavie
Frae door to door.

THE BRAES O' BALLOCHMYLE.

THE

HE Catrine woods were yellow seen, The flowers decayed on Catrine lea, Nae lav'rock sang on hillock green,

But Nature sickened on the ee. Through faded groves Maria sang, Hersel' in beauty's bloom the while, And aye the wild-wood echoes rang, Fareweel the Braes o' Ballochmyle!

Low in your wintry beds, ye flowers,
Again ye 'll flourish fresh and fair;

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