Where three lairds' lands met at a burn,* Was bent that night. Whyles owre a linn the burnie plays, Unseen that night. Amang the branches, on the brae, The deil or else an outler quey, Poor Leezie's heart maist lap the hool; Wi' a plunge that night. In order, on the clean hearth stane, Because he gat the toom-dish thrice, In wrath that night. * You go out, one or more, for this is a social spell, to a south running spring, or rivulet, where "three lairds' lands meet," and dip your left shirt sleeve. Go to bed in sight of a fire, and hang your wet sleeve before it to dry. Lie awake, and, some time near midnight, an apparition, having the exact figure of the grand ob. ject in question, will come and turn the sleeve, as if to dry the other side of it. Take three dishes; put clean water in one, foul water in another, leave the third empty: blindfold a person, and lead him to the hearth where the dishes are ranged; he (or she) dips the left hand if by chance in the clean water, the future husband or wife will come to the bar of matrimony a maid; if in the foul, a widow; if in the empty dish, it foretels with equal certainty no marriage at all. It is repeated three times, and every time the arrange ment of the dishes is altered. Wi' merry sangs, an' friendly cracks, An' unco tales, an' funnie jokes, Their sports were cheap an' cheary; Syne, wi' a social glass o' strunt, They parted aff careerin Fu' blythe that night. THE AULD FARMER'S NEW-YEAR MORNING SALUTATION TO HIS AULD MARE MAGGIE: ON GIVING HER THE ACCUSTOMED RIPP OF CORN TO HANSEL IN THE NEW YEAR. A GUID New-year I wish thee, Maggie! Thou could hae gaen like onie staggie Out-owre the lay. Tho' now thou's dowie, stiff, an' crazy, An' thy auld hide as white's a daisy, I've seen thee dappl't, sleek, and glaizie, A bonny gray: Thou ance was i' the foremost rank, As e'er tread yird; An' could hae flown out-owre a stank, Like ony bird. * Sowens, with butter instead of milk to them, is always the Halloween supper. It's now some nine-an'-twenty year, An' fifty mark; An' thou was stark. When first I gaed to woo my Jenny, Ye ne'er was donsie ! But hamely, tawie, quiet, an' cannie, An' unco sonsie. That day, ye pranc'd wi' muckle pride, Wi' maiden air! Kyle Stewart I could bragged wide, For sic a pair. Tho' now ye dow but hoyte and hoble, That day ye was a jinker noble, For heels an' win'! An' ran them till they a' did wauble, Far, far, behin'. When thou an' I were young an' skeigh, How thou wad prance, an' snore, an' skreigh, An' tak the road! Town's bodies ran, an' stood abeigh, An' ca't thee mad. When thou was corn't, an' I was mellow, For pith an' speed; But ev'ry tail thou pay't them hollow, Whare'er thou gaed. The sma', droop-rumpl't, hunter cattle, But sax Scotch miles thou try't their mettle, An' gar't them whaizle, Nae whip nor spur, but jast a wattle O'saugh or hazle. Thou was a noble fittie-lan', As e'er in tug or tow was drawn! On guid March-weather, Hae turn'd sax rood beside our han', For days thegither. Thou never braindgt, an' fetch't, an' fliskit, Wi' pith an' pow'r, Till spritty knowes wad rair't and riskit, An' slypet owre. When frosts lay lang, and snaws were deep, gied thy cog 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; Then stood to blaw; But just thy step a wee thing hastit, Thou snoov't awa. My pleugh is now thy bairn-time a'; That thou hast nurst: They drew me thretteen pund an' twa, Monie a sair daurk we hae wrought, We wad be beat! Yet here to crazy age we're brought, Wi' something yet, And think na, my auld trusty servan', For my last fou, A heapit stimpart, I'll reserve ane Laid by for you. We've worn to crazy years thegither; To some hain'd rig, Where ye may nobly rax your leather, Wi' sma' fatigue. TO A MOUSE, ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST WITH TH PLOUGH, NOVEMBER, 1785. WEE, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie, O, what a panic's in thy breastie ! Wi' bickering brattle! I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, Wi' murd'ring pattle! I'm truly sorry man's dominion Which makes thee startle At me, thy poor earth-born companion An' fellow-mortal! I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve; 'S a sma' request; I'll get a blessin wi' the lave, An' never miss't! Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin! |