And hear the sad narration: He swore 't was hilchin Jean M'Craw, Till, stop she trotted through them a'And wha was it but Grumphie Asteer that night! Meg fain wad to the barn hae gaen, She turns the key wi' canny thraw, 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, A wanton widow Leezie was, But, och! that night, amang the shaws, She through the whins, and by the cairn, Whyles owre a linn the burnie plays, Amang the brackens, on the brae, 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, In order, on the clean hearth-stane, In wrath that night. Wi' merry sangs, and friendly cracks, And unco tales, and funny jokes, Their sports were cheap and cheery ; 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; Till bairns' bairns kindly cuddle Your auld gray hairs. But, Davie lad, I'm red yeʼre glaikit ; Sic hauns as you sud ne'er be faiket, For me, I'm on Parnassus' brink, Of a' the thoughtless sons o' man, O' rhymin' clink, The devil-hae 't (that I sud ban!) They ever think. Nae thought, nae view, nae scheme o' livin', But just the pouchie put the nieve in, And while ought's there, Then hiltie skiltie, we gae scrievin', Leeze me on rhyme! it's aye a treasure, Though rough and raploch be her measure, She's seldom lazy. Haud to the Muse, my dainty Davie : 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, |