Poems and Songs Read Online

–

It's you and Taylor3 are the chief

To blame for a' this black mischief;

But could the L–d's ain folk get leave,

A toom tar-barrel

And twa red peats wad bring relief

And end the quarrel. –

For me, my skill's but very sma',

And skill in Prose I've nane ava;

But quietlenswise, between us twa,

Weel may ye speed;

And tho' they sud you sair misca',

Ne'er fash your head. –

E'en swinge the dogs; and thresh them sicker!

The mair they squeel ay chap the thicker;

And still 'mang hands a hearty bicker

O' something stout;

It gars an Owther's pulse beat quicker,

And helps his wit. –

There's naething like the honest nappy;

Whare'll ye e'er see men sae happy,

Or women sonsie, saft and sappy,

'Tween morn and morn,

As them wha like to taste the drappie

In glass or horn. –

I've seen me daez't upon a time,

I scarce could wink or see a styme;

Just ae hauf-mutchkin does me prime,

(Ought less, is little)

Then back I rattle on the rhyme,

As gleg's a whittle. –

I am &c.

1 The Revd J. R–ss–ll – Kilmck.

2 Chapel – Mr. Russel's kirk –

3 Taylor – Dr. Taylor of Norwich –

Man was Made to Mourn, A Dirge

I

When chill November's surly blast

Made fields and forests bare,

One ev'ning, as I wand'red forth,

Along the banks of AIRE,

I spy'd a man, whose aged step

Seem'd weary, worn with care;

His face was furrow'd o'er with years,

And hoary was his hair.

II

Young stranger, whither wand'rest thou?

Began the rev'rend Sage;

Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain,

Or youthful Pleasure's rage?

Or haply, prest with cares and woes,

Too soon thou hast began,

To wander forth, with me, to mourn

The miseries of Man.

III

The Sun that overhangs yon moors,

Out-spreading far and wide,

Where hundreds labour to support

A haughty lordling's pride;

I've seen yon weary winter-sun

Twice forty times return;

And ev'ry time has added proofs,

That Man was made to mourn.

IV

O Man! while in thy early years,

How prodigal of time!

Mispending all thy precious hours,

Thy glorious, youthful prime!

Alternate Follies take the sway;

Licentious Passions burn;

Which tenfold force gives Nature's law,

That Man was made to mourn.

V

Look not alone on youthful Prime,

Or Manhood's active might;

Man then is useful to his kind,

Supported is his right:

But see him on the edge of life,

With Cares and Sorrows worn,

Then Age and Want, Oh! ill-match'd pair!

Show Man was made to mourn.

VI

A few seem favourites of Fate,

In Pleasure's lap carest;

Yet, think not all the Rich and Great,

Are likewise truly blest.

But Oh! what crouds in ev'ry land,

All wretched and forlorn,

Thro' weary life this lesson learn,

That Man was made to mourn!

VII

Many and sharp the num'rous Ills

Inwoven with our frame!

More pointed still we make ourselves,

Regret, Remorse and Shame!

And Man, whose heav'n-erected face,

The smiles of love adorn,

Man's inhumanity to Man

Makes countless thousands mourn!

VIII

See, yonder poor, o'erlabour'd wight,

So abject, mean and vile,

Who begs a brother of the earth

To give him leave to toil;

And see his lordly fellow-worm,

The poor petition spurn,

Unmindful, tho' a weeping wife,

And helpless offspring mourn.

IX

If I'm design'd yon lordling's slave,

By Nature's law design'd,

Why was an independent wish

E'er planted in my mind?

If not, why am I subject to

His cruelty, or scorn?

Or why has Man the will and pow'r

To make his fellow mourn?

X

Yet, let not this too much, my Son,

Disturb thy youthful breast:

This partial view of human-kind

Is surely not the last!

The poor, oppressed, honest man

Had never, sure, been born,

Had there not been some recompence

To comfort those that mourn!

XI

O Death! the poor man's dearest friend,

The kindest and the best!

Welcome the hour, my aged limbs

Are laid with thee at rest!

The Great, the Wealthy fear thy blow,

From pomp and pleasure torn;

But Oh! a blest relief to those

That weary-laden mourn!

A Song. – On Miss P– K–

Young Peggy blooms our boniest lass,

Her blush is like the morning,

The rosy dawn, the springing grass,

With early gems adorning:

Her eyes outshine the radiant beams

That gild the passing shower,

And glitter o'er the chrystal streams,

And chear each fresh'ning flower.

Her lips more than the cherries bright,

A richer die has grac'd them,

They charm th' admiring gazer's sight

And sweetly tempt to taste them:

Her smile is as the ev'ning mild,

When feath'red pairs are courting,

And little lambkins wanton wild,

In playful bands disporting.

Were Fortune lovely Peggy's foe,

Such sweetness would relent her,

As blooming spring unbends the brow

Of surly, savage winter.

Detraction's eye no aim can gain

Her winning pow'rs to lessen;

And fretful envy grins in vain,

The poison'd tooth to fasten.

Ye Pow'rs of Honor, Love and Truth,

From ev'ry ill defend her;

Inspire the highly favor'd Youth

The Destinies intend her;

Still fan the sweet connubial flame,

Responsive in each bosom;

And bless the dear parental name

With many a filial blossom.

The Braes o' Ballochmyle

The Catrine woods were yellow seen,

The flowers decay'd on Catrine lee,

Nae lav'rock sang on hillock green,

But Nature sicken'd on the e'e.

Thro' faded groves Maria sang,

Hersel in beauty's bloom the while,

And ay the wild-wood echoes rang,

Fareweel the braes o' Ballochmyle.

Low in your wintry beds, ye flowers,

Again ye'll flourish fresh and fair;

Ye birdies dumb, in with'ring bowers,

Again ye'll charm the vocal air.

But here alas! for me nae mair

Shall birdie charm, or floweret smile;

Fareweel the bonnie banks of Ayr,

Fareweel, fareweel! sweet Ballochmyle!

[Third Epistle] to J. Lapraik

Sept. 13th, 1785.

Guid speed an' furder to you Johny,

Guid health, hale han's, an' weather bony;

Now when ye're nickan down fu' cany

The staff o' bread,

May ye ne'er want a stoup o' brany

To clear your head.

May Boreas never thresh your rigs,

Nor kick your rickles aff their legs,

Sendin' the stuff o'er muirs an' haggs

Like drivin' wrack;

But may the tapmast grain that wags

Come to the sack.

I'm bizzie too, an' skelpin' at it,

But bitter, daudin showers hae wat it,

Sae my auld stumpie pen I gat it

Wi' muckle wark,

An' took my jocteleg an' whatt it,

Like ony clark.

It's now twa month that I'm your debtor,

For your braw, nameless, dateless letter,

Abusin' me for harsh ill nature

On holy men,

While deil a hair yoursel ye're better,

But mair profane.

But let the kirk-folk ring their bells,

Let's sing about our noble sels;

We'll cry nae jads frae heathen hills

To help, or roose us,

But browster wives an' whiskie stills,

They are the muses.

Your friendship sir, I winna quat it,

An' if ye mak' objections at it,

Then han' in nieve some day we'll knot it,

An' witness take,

An' when wi' Usquabae we've wat it

It winna break.

But if the beast and branks be spar'd

Till kye be gaun without the herd,

An' a' the vittel in the yard,

An' theekit right,

I mean your ingle-side to guard

Ae winter night.

Then muse-inspirin' aqua-vitæ

Shall make us baith sae blythe an' witty,

Till ye forget ye're auld an' gutty,

An' be as canty

As ye were nine year less than thretty,

Sweet ane an' twenty!

But stooks are cowpet wi' the blast,

An' now the sinn keeks in the west,

Then I maun rin amang the rest

An' quat my chanter;

Sae I subscribe mysel in haste,

Yours, RAB THE RANTER.

To the Rev. John M'Math, Inclosing a copy of Holy Willie's Prayer, which he had requested

Sept. 17th, 1785.

While at the stook the shearers cow'r

To shun the bitter blaudin' show'r,

Or in gulravage rinnin scow'r

To pass the time,

To you I dedicate the hour

In idle rhyme.

My musie, tir'd wi' mony a sonnet

On gown, an' ban', an' douse black bonnet,

Is grown right eerie now she 's done it,

Lest they shou'd blame her,

An' rouse their holy thunder on it

And anathem her.

I own 'twas rash, an' rather hardy,

That I, a simple, countra bardie,

Shou'd meddle wi' a pack sae sturdy,

Wha, if they ken me,

Can easy, wi' a single wordie,

Louse h–ll upon me.

But I gae mad at their grimaces,

Their sighan, cantan, grace-prood faces,

Their three-mile prayers, an' hauf-mile graces,

Their raxan conscience,

Whase greed, revenge, an' pride disgraces

Waur nor their nonsense.

There's Gaun, miska't waur than a beast,

Wha has mair honor in his breast

Than mony scores as guid's the priest

Wha sae abus't him:

An' may a bard no crack his jest

What way they've use't him?

See him, the poor man's friend in need,

The gentleman in word an' deed,

An' shall his fame an' honor bleed

By worthless skellums,

An' not a muse erect her head

To cowe the blellums?

O Pope, had I thy satire's darts

To gie the rascals their deserts,

I'd rip their rotten, hollow hearts,

An' tell aloud

Their jugglin' hocus pocus arts

To cheat the crowd.

God knows, I'm no the thing I shou'd be,

Nor am I even the thing I cou'd be,

But twenty times, I rather wou'd be

An atheist clean,

Than under gospel colors hid be

Just for a screen.

An honest man may like a glass,

An honest man may like a lass,

But mean revenge, an' malice fause

He'll still disdain,

An' then cry zeal for gospel laws,

Like some we ken.

They take religion in their mouth;

They talk o' mercy, grace an' truth,

For what? – to gie their malice skouth

On some puir wight,

An' hunt him down, o'er right an' ruth,

To ruin streight.

All hail, Religion! maid divine!

Pardon a muse sae mean as mine,

Who in her rough imperfect line

Thus daurs to name thee;

To stigmatize false friends of thine

Can ne'er defame thee.

Tho' blotch't an' foul wi' mony a stain,

An' far unworthy of thy train,

With trembling voice I tune my strain

To join with those,

Who boldly dare thy cause maintain

In spite of foes:

In spite o' crowds, in spite o' mobs,

In spite of undermining jobs,

In spite o' dark banditti stabs

At worth an' merit,

By scoundrels, even wi' holy robes,

But hellish spirit.

O Ayr, my dear, my native ground,

Within thy presbytereal bound

A candid lib'ral band is found

Of public teachers,

As men, as Christians too renown'd

An' manly preachers.

Sir, in that circle you are nam'd;

Sir, in that circle you are fam'd;

An' some, by whom your doctrine's blam'd

(Which gies you honor)

Even Sir, by them your heart's esteem'd,

An' winning manner.

Pardon this freedom I have ta'en,

An' if impertinent I've been,

Impute it not, good Sir, in ane

Whase heart ne'er wrang'd ye,

But to his utmost would befriend

Ought that belang'd ye.

To a Mouse, On turning her up in her Nest, with the Plough, November, 1785.

Wee, sleeket, cowran, tim'rous beastie,

O, what a panic's in thy breastie!

Thou need na start awa sae hasty,

Wi' bickering brattle!

I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee,

Wi' murd'ring pattle!

I'm truly sorry Man's dominion

Has broken Nature's social union,

An' justifies that ill opinion,

Which makes thee startle,

At me, thy poor, earth-born companion,

An' fellow-mortal!

I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve;

What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!

A daimen-icker in a thrave

'S a sma' request:

I'll get a blessin wi' the lave,

An' never miss't!

Thy wee-bit housie, too, in ruin!

It's silly wa's the win's are strewin!

An' naething, now, to big a new ane,

O' foggage green!

An' bleak December's winds ensuin,

Baith snell an' keen!

Thou saw the fields laid bare an' wast,

An' weary Winter comin fast,

An' cozie here, beneath the blast,

Thou thought to dwell,

Till crash! the cruel coulter past

Out thro' thy cell.

That wee-bit heap o' leaves an' stibble,

Has cost thee monie a weary nibble!

Now thou 's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble,

But house or hald,

To thole the Winter's sleety dribble,

An' cranreuch cauld!

But Mousie, thou art no thy-lane,

In proving foresight may be vain:

The best laid schemes o' Mice an' Men,

Gang aft agley,

An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,

For promis'd joy!

Still, thou art blest, compar'd wi' me!

The present only toucheth thee:

But Och! I backward cast my e'e,

On prospects drear!

An' forward, tho' I canna see,

I guess an' fear!

The Holy Fair1

A robe of seeming truth and trust

Hid crafty Observation;

And secret hung, with poison'd crust,

The dirk of Defamation:

A mask that like the gorget show'd,

Dye-varying, on the pigeon;

And for a mantle large and broad,

He wrapt him in Religion. –

Hypocrisy a-la-Mode.

I

Upon a simmer Sunday morn,

When Nature's face is fair,

I walked forth to view the corn,

An' snuff the callor air:

The rising sun, owre GALSTON muirs,

Wi' glorious light was glintan;

The hares were hirplan down the furrs,

The lav'rocks they were chantan

Fu' sweet that day.

II

As lightsomely I glowr'd abroad,

To see a scene sae gay,

Three hizzies, early at the road,

Cam skelpan up the way.

Twa had manteeles o' dolefu' black,

But ane wi' lyart lining;

The third, that gaed a wee aback,

Was in the fashion shining

Fu' gay that day.

III

The twa appear'd like sisters twin,

In feature, form an' claes;

Their visage – wither'd, lang an' thin,

An' sour as onie slaes:

The third cam up, hap-step-an'-loup,

As light as onie lambie, –

An' wi' a curchie low did stoop,

As soon as e'er she saw me,

Fu' kind that day.

IV

Wi' bonnet aff, quoth I, »Sweet lass,

I think ye seem to ken me;

I'm sure I've seen that bonie face,

But yet I canna name ye. –«

Quo' she, an' laughan as she spak,

An' taks me by the hands,

»Ye, for my sake, hae gien the feck

Of a' the ten commands

A screed some day.

V

My name is FUN – your cronie dear,

The nearest friend ye hae;

An' this is SUPERSTITION here,

An' that's HYPOCRISY:

I'm gaun to ********* holy fair,

To spend an hour in daffin;

Gin ye'll go there, yon runkl'd pair,

We will get famous laughin

At them this day.«

VI

Quoth I, »With a' my heart, I'll do 't;

I'll get my Sunday's sark on,

An' meet you on the holy spot;

Faith we'se hae fine remarkin!«

Then I gaed hame, at crowdie-time,

An' soon I made me ready;

For roads were clad, frae side to side,

Wi' monie a weary body,

In droves that day.

VII

Here, farmers gash, in ridin graith,

Gaed hoddan by their cotters;

There, swankies young, in braw braid-claith,

Are springan owre the gutters.

The lasses, skelpan barefit, thrang,

In silks an' scarlets glitter;

Wi' sweet-milk cheese, in mony a whang,

An' farls, bak'd wi' butter,

Fu' crump that day.

VIII

When by the plate we set our nose,

Weel heaped up wi' ha'pence,

A greedy glowr Black-bonnet throws,

An' we maun draw our tippence.

Then in we go to see the show,

On ev'ry side they're gath'ran;

Some carryan dails, some chairs an' stools,

An' some are busy bleth'ran

Right loud that day.

IX

Here, stands a shed to fend the show'rs,

An' screen our countra Gentry;

There, Racer-Jess, an' twathree wh–res,

Are blinkan at the entry:

Here sits a raw o' tittlan jads,

Wi' heaving breasts an' bare neck;

An' there, a batch o' Wabster lads,

Blackguarding frae K*******ck

For fun this day.

X

Here, some are thinkan on their sins,

An' some upo' their claes;

Ane curses feet that fyl'd his shins,

Anither sighs an' pray's:

On this hand sits a Chosen swatch,

Wi' screw'd-up, grace-proud faces;

On that, a set o' chaps, at watch,

Thrang winkan on the lasses

To chairs that day.

XI

O happy is that man, an' blest!

Nae wonder that it pride him!

Whase ain dear lass, that he likes best,

Comes clinkan down beside him!

Wi' arm repos'd on the chair back,

He sweetly does compose him;

Which, by degrees, slips round her neck,

An's loof upon her bosom

Unkend that day.

XII

Now a' the congregation o'er,

Is silent expectation;

For ****** speels the holy door,

Wi' tidings o' d–mn–t–n:

Should Hornie, as in ancient days,

'Mang sons o' G– present him,

The vera sight o' ******'s face,

To's ain het hame had sent him

Wi' fright that day.

XIII

Hear how he clears the points o' Faith

Wi' rattlin an' thumpin!

Now meekly calm, now wild in wrath,

He's stampan, an' he's jumpan!

His lengthen'd chin, his turn'd up snout,

His eldritch squeel an' gestures,

O how they fire the heart devout,

Like cantharidian plaisters

On sic a day!

XIV

But hark! the tent has chang'd it's voice;

There's peace an' rest nae langer;

For a' the real judges rise,

They canna sit for anger.

***** opens out his cauld harangues,

On practice and on morals;

An' aff the godly pour in thrangs,

To gie the jars an' barrels

A lift that day.

XV

What signifies his barren shine,

Of moral pow'rs an' reason;

His English style, an' gesture fine,

Are a' clean out o' season.

Like SOCRATES or ANTONINE,

Or some auld pagan heathen,

The moral man he does define,

But ne'er a word o' faith in

That's right that day.

XVI

In guid time comes an antidote

Against sic poosion'd nostrum;

For *******, frae the water-fit,

Ascends the holy rostrum:

See, up he's got the Word o' G– ,

An' meek an' mim has view'd it,

While COMMON-SENSE has taen the road,

An' aff, an' up the Cowgate2

Fast, fast that day.

XVII

Wee ****** niest, the Guard relieves,

An' Orthodoxy raibles,

Tho' in his heart he weel believes,

An' thinks it auld wives' fables:

But faith! the birkie wants a Manse,

So, cannilie he hums them;

Altho' his carnal Wit an' Sense

Like hafflins-wise o'ercomes him

At times that day.

XVIII

Now, butt an' ben, the Change-house fills,

Wi' yill-caup Commentators:

Here's crying out for bakes an' gills,

An' there, the pint-stowp clatters;

While thick an' thrang, an' loud an' lang,

Wi' Logic, an' wi' Scripture,

They raise a din, that, in the end,

Is like to breed a rupture

O' wrath that day.

XIX

Leeze me on Drink! it gies us mair

Than either School or Colledge:

It kindles Wit, it waukens Lear,

It pangs us fou o' Knowledge.

Be't whisky-gill or penny-wheep,

Or onie stronger potion,

It never fails, on drinkin deep,

To kittle up our notion,

By night or day.

XX

The lads an' lasses, blythely bent

To mind baith saul an' body,

Sit round the table, weel content,

An' steer about the Toddy.

On this ane's dress, an' that ane's leuk,

They're makin observations;

While some are cozie i' the neuk,

An' forming assignations

To meet some day.

XXI

But now the L–'s ain trumpet touts,

Till a' the hills are rairan,

An' echos back return the shouts,

Black ****** is na spairan:

His piercin words, like highlan swords,

Divide the joints an' marrow;

His talk o' H–ll, whare devils dwell,

Our vera3 »Sauls does harrow«

Wi' fright that day.

XXII

A vast, unbottom'd, boundless Pit,

Fill'd fou o' lowan brunstane,

Whase raging flame, an' scorching heat,

Wad melt the hardest whunstane!

The half-asleep start up wi' fear,

An' think they hear it roaran,

When presently it does appear,

'Twas but some neebor snoran

Asleep that day.

XXIII

'Twad be owre lang a tale to tell,

How monie stories past,

An' how they crouded to the yill,

When they were a' dismist:

How drink gaed round, in cogs an' caups,

Amang the furms an' benches;

An' cheese an' bread, frae women's laps,

Was dealt about in lunches,

An' dawds that day.

XXIV

In comes a gausie, gash Guidwife,

An' sits down by the fire,

Syn draws her kebbuck an' her knife;

The lasses they are shyer.

The auld Guidmen, about the grace,

Frae side to side they bother,

Till some ane by his bonnet lays,

An' gies them't, like a tether,

Fu' lang that day.

XXV

Wae sucks! for him that gets nae lass,

Or lasses that hae naething!

Sma' need has he to say a grace,

Or melvie his braw claething!

O Wives be mindfu', ance yoursel,

How bonie lads ye wanted,

An' dinna, for a kebbuck-heel,

Let lasses be affronted

On sic a day!

XXVI

Now Clinkumbell, wi' rattlan tow,

Begins to jow an' croon;

Some swagger hame, the best they dow,

Some wait the afternoon.

At slaps the billies halt a blink,

Till lasses strip their shoon:

Wi' faith an' hope, an' love an' drink,

They're a' in famous tune

For crack that day.

XXVII

How monie hearts this day converts,

O' Sinners and o' Lasses!

Their hearts o' stane, gin night are gane

As saft as ony flesh is.

There's some are fou o' love divine;

There's some are fou o' brandy;

An' monie jobs that day begin,

May end in Houghmagandie

Some ither day.

1 Holy Fair is a common phrase in the West of Scotland for a sacramental occasion.

2 A street so called, which faces the tent in –

3 Shakespeare's Hamlet.

The Twa Dogs. A Tale

'Twas in that place o' Scotland's isle,

That bears the name o' auld king COIL,

Upon a bonie day in June,

When wearing thro' the afternoon,

Twa Dogs, that were na thrang at hame,

Forgather'd ance upon a time.

The first I'll name, they ca'd him Ceasar,

Was keepet for his Honor's pleasure;

His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs,

Show'd he was nane o' Scotland's dogs;

But whalpet some place far abroad,

Whare sailors gang to fish for Cod.

His locked, letter'd, braw brass-collar,

Show'd him the gentleman an' scholar,

But tho' he was o' high degree,

The fient a pride na pride had he,

But wad hae spent an hour caressan,

Ev'n wi' a Tinkler-gipsey's messan:

At Kirk or Market, Mill or Smiddie,

Nae tawtied tyke, tho' e'er sae duddie,

But he wad stan't, as glad to see him,

An' stroan't on stanes an' hillocks wi' him.

The tither was a ploughman's collie,

A rhyming, ranting, raving billie,

Wha for his friend an' comrade had him,

And in his freaks had Luath ca'd him;

After some dog in 1Highlan Sang,

Was made lang syne, lord knows how lang.

He was a gash an' faithfu' tyke,

As ever lap a sheugh, or dyke!

His honest, sonsie, baws'nt face,

Ay gat him friends in ilka place;

His breast was white, his towzie back,

Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black;

His gawsie tail, wi' upward curl,

Hung owre his hurdies wi' a swirl.

Nae doubt but they were fain o' ither,

An' unco pack an' thick the gither;

Wi' social nose whyles snuff'd an' snowcket;

Whyles mice an' modewurks they howcket;

Whyles scour'd awa in lang excursion,

An' worry'd ither in diversion;

Untill wi' daffin weary grown,

Upon a knowe they sat them down,

An' there began a lang digression

About the lords o' the creation.

Ceasar

I've aften wonder'd, honest Luath,

What sort o' life poor dogs like you have;

An' when the gentry's life I saw,

What way poor bodies liv'd ava.

Our Laird gets in his racked rents,

His coals, his kane, an' a' his stents;

He rises when he likes himsel;

His flunkies answer at the bell;

He ca's his coach; he ca's his horse;

He draws a bonie, silken purse

As lang's my tail, whare thro' the steeks,

The yellow, letter'd Geordie keeks.

Frae morn to een it's nought but toiling,

At baking, roasting, frying, boiling:

An' tho' the gentry first are steghan,

Yet ev'n the ha' folk fill their peghan

Wi' sauce, ragouts, an' sic like trashtrie,

That's little short o' downright wastrie.

Our Whipper-in, wee, blastiet wonner,

Poor, worthless elf, it eats a dinner,

Better than ony Tenant-man

His Honor has in a' the lan':

An' what poor Cot-folk pit their painch in,

I own it's past my comprehension. –

Luath

Trowth, Ceasar, whyles they're fash'd eneugh;

A Cotter howckan in a sheugh,

Wi' dirty stanes biggan a dyke,

Bairan a quarry, an' sic like,

Himsel, a wife, he thus sustains,

A smytrie o' wee, duddie weans,

An' nought but his han'-daurk, to keep

Them right an' tight in thack an' raep.

An' when they meet wi' sair disasters,

Like loss o' health, or want o' masters,

Ye maist wad think, a wee touch langer,

An' they maun starve o' cauld an' hunger:

But how it comes, I never kent yet,

They're maistly wonderfu' contented;

An' buirdly chiels, an' clever hizzies,

Are bred in sic a way as this is.

Ceasar

But then, to see how ye're negleket,

How huff'd, an' cuff'd, an' disrespeket!

L–d man, our gentry care as little

For delvers, ditchers, an' sic cattle;

They gang as saucy by poor folk,

As I wad by a stinkan brock.

I've notic'd, on our Laird's court-day,

An' mony a time my heart's been wae,

Poor tenant-bodies, scant o' cash,

How they maun thole a factor's snash;

He'll stamp an' threaten, curse an' swear,

He'll apprehend them, poind their gear,

While they maun stand, wi' aspect humble,

An' hear it a', an' fear an' tremble!

I see how folk live that hae riches,

But surely poor-folk maun be wretches!

Luath

They're no sae wretched 's ane wad think;

Tho' constantly on poortith's brink,

They're sae accustom'd wi' the sight,

The view o't gies them little fright.

Then chance an' fortune are sae guided,

They're ay in less or mair provided;

An' tho' fatigu'd wi' close employment,

A blink o' rest's a sweet enjoyment.

The dearest comfort o' their lives,

Their grushie weans, an' faithfu' wives;

The prattling things are just their pride,

That sweetens a' their fire-side.

An' whyles, twalpennie-worth o' nappy

Can mak the bodies unco happy;

They lay aside their private cares,

To mind the Kirk an' State affairs;

They'll talk o' patronage an' priests,

Wi' kindling fury i' their breasts,

Or tell what new taxation's comin,

An' ferlie at the folk in LON'ON.

As bleak-fac'd Hallowmass returns,

They get the jovial, rantan Kirns,

When rural life, of ev'ry station,

Unite in common recreation;

Love blinks, Wit slaps, an' social Mirth

Forgets there's care upo' the earth.

That merry day the year begins,

They bar the door on frosty win's;

The nappy reeks wi' mantling ream,

An' sheds a heart-inspiring steam;

The luntan pipe, an' sneeshin mill,

Are handed round wi' right guid will;

The cantie, auld folks, crackan crouse,

The young anes rantan thro' the house –

My heart has been sae fain to see them,

That I for joy hae barket wi' them.

Still it's owre true that ye hae said,

Sic game is now owre aften play'd;

There's monie a creditable stock

O' decent, honest, fawsont folk,

Are riven out baith root an' branch,

Some rascal's pridefu' greed to quench,

Wha thinks to knit himsel the faster

In favor wi' some gentle Master,

Wha, aiblins, thrang a parliamentin,

For Britain's guid his saul indentin –

Ceasar

Haith lad, ye little ken about it;

For Britain's guid! guid faith! I doubt it.

Say rather, gaun as PREMIERS lead him,

An' saying aye or no's they bid him:

At Operas an' Plays parading,

Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading:

Or maybe, in a frolic daft,

To HAGUE or CALAIS takes a waft,

To make a tour an' take a whirl,

To learn bon ton an' see the worl'.

There, at VIENNA or VERSAILLES,

He rives his father's auld entails;

Or by MADRID he takes the rout,

To thrum guittarres an' fecht wi' nowt;

Or down Italian Vista startles,

Wh–re-hunting amang groves o' myrtles:

Then bowses drumlie German-water,

To make himsel look fair an' fatter,

An' clear the consequential sorrows,

Love-gifts of Carnival Signioras.

For Britain's guid! for her destruction!

Wi' dissipation, feud an' faction!

Luath

Hech man! dear sirs! is that the gate,

They waste sae mony a braw estate!

Are we sae foughten an' harass'd

For gear to gang that gate at last!

O would they stay aback frae courts,

An' please themsels wi' countra sports,

It wad for ev'ry ane be better,

The Laird, the Tenant, an' the Cotter!

For thae frank, rantan, ramblan billies,

Fient haet o' them 's illhearted fellows;

Except for breakin o' their timmer,

Or speakin lightly o' their Limmer;

Or shootin of a hare or moorcock,

The ne'er-a-bit they're ill to poor folk.

But will ye tell me, master Cesar,

Sure great folk's life's a life o' pleasure?

Nae cauld nor hunger e'er can steer them,

The vera thought o't need na fear them.

Cesar

L–d man, were ye but whyles where I am,

The gentles ye wad ne'er envy them!

It's true, they needna starve or sweat,

Thro' Winter's cauld, or Summer's heat;

They've nae sair-wark to craze their banes,

An' fill auld-age wi' grips an' granes:

But human-bodies are sic fools,

For a' their Colledges an' Schools,

That when nae real ills perplex them,

They mak enow themsels to vex them;

An' ay the less they hae to sturt them,

In like proportion, less will hurt them.

A country fellow at the pleugh,

His acre's till'd, he's right eneugh;

A country girl at her wheel,

Her dizzen's done, she's unco weel;

But Gentlemen, an' Ladies warst,

Wi' ev'n down want o' work they're curst.

They loiter, lounging, lank an' lazy;

Tho' deil-haet ails them, yet uneasy;

Their days, insipid, dull an' tasteless,

Their nights, unquiet, lang an' restless.

An' ev'n their sports, their balls an' races,

Their galloping thro' public places,

There's sic parade, sic pomp an' art,

The joy can scarcely reach the heart.

The Men cast out in party-matches,

Then sowther a' in deep debauches.

Ae night, they're mad wi' drink an' wh–ring,

Niest day their life is past enduring.

The Ladies arm-in-arm in clusters,

As great an' gracious a' as sisters;

But hear their absent thoughts o' ither,

They're a' run-deils an' jads the gither.

Whyles, owre the wee bit cup an' platie,

They sip the scandal-potion pretty;

Or lee-lang nights, wi' crabbet leuks,

Pore owre the devil's pictur'd beuks;

Stake on a chance a farmer's stackyard,

An' cheat like ony unhang'd blackguard.

There's some exceptions, man an' woman;

But this is Gentry's life in common.

By this, the sun was out o' sight,

An' darker gloamin brought the night:

The bum-clock humm'd wi' lazy drone,

The kye stood rowtan i' the loan;

When up they gat, an' shook their lugs,

Rejoic'd they were na men but dogs;

An' each took off his several way,

Resolv'd to meet some ither day.

1 Cuchullin's dog in Ossian's Fingal.

The Cotter's Saturday Night. Inscribed to R. A****, Esq.

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,

Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;

Nor Grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile,

The short and simple annals of the Poor.

Gray

.

I

My lov'd, my honor'd, much respected friend,

No mercenary Bard his homage pays;

With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end,

My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and praise:

To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays,

The lowly train in life's sequester'd scene;

The native feelings strong, the guileless ways,

What A**** in a Cottage would have been;

Ah! tho' his worth unknown, far happier there I ween!

II

November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh;

The short'ning winter-day is near a close;

The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh;

The black'ning trains o' craws to their repose:

The toil-worn COTTER frae his labor goes,

This night his weekly moil is at an end,

Collects his spades, his mattocks and his hoes,

Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend,

And weary, o'er the muir, his course does hameward bend.

III

At length his lonely Cot appears in view,

Beneath the shelter of an aged tree;

Th' expectant wee-things, toddlan, stacher thro'

To meet their Dad, wi' flichterin noise and glee.

His wee-bit ingle, blinkan bonilie,

His clean hearth-stane, his thrifty Wifie's smile,

The lisping infant, prattling on his knee,

Does a' his weary kiaugh and care beguile,

And makes him quite forget his labor and his toil.

IV

Belyve, the elder bairns come drapping in,

At Service out, amang the Farmers roun';

Some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin

A cannie errand to a neebor toun:

Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman-grown,

In youthfu' bloom, Love sparkling in her e'e,

Comes hame, perhaps to show a braw new gown,

Or deposite her sair-won penny-fee,

To help her Parents dear, if they in hardship be.

V

With joy unfeign'd, brothers and sisters meet,

And each for other's weelfare kindly spiers:

The social hours, swift-wing'd, unnotic'd, fleet;

Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears.

The Parents partial eye their hopeful years;

Anticipation forward points the view;

The Mother wi' her needle and her sheers

Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the new;

The Father mixes a', wi' admonition due.

VI

Their Master's and their Mistress's command,

The youngkers a' are warned to obey;

And mind their labors wi' an eydent hand,

And ne'er, tho' out o' sight, to jauk or play:

»And O! be sure to fear the LORD alway!

And mind your duty, duely, morn and night!

Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray,

Implore His counsel and assisting might:

They never sought in vain, that sought the LORD aright.«

VII

But hark! a rap comes gently to the door;

Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same,

Tells how a neebor lad came o'er the muir,

To do some errands, and convoy her hame.

The wily Mother sees the conscious flame

Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek,

With heart-struck, anxious care enquires his name,

While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak;

Weel-pleas'd the Mother hears, it's nae wild, worthless Rake.

VIII

With kindly welcome, Jenny brings him ben;

A strappan youth, he takes the Mother's eye;

Blythe Jenny sees the visit's no ill-taen;

The Father cracks of horses, pleughs and kye.

The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy,

But blate and laithfu', scarce can weel behave;

The Mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy

What makes the youth sae bashfu' and sae grave;

Weel-pleas'd to think her bairn's respected like the lave.

IX

O happy love! where love like this is found!

O heart-felt raptures! bliss beyond compare!

I've paced much this weary, mortal round,

And sage EXPERIENCE bids me this declare –

»If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare,

One cordial in this melancholly Vale,

'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest Pair,

In other's arms, breathe out the tender tale,

Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the ev'ning gale.«

X

Is there, in human-form, that bears a heart –

A wretch! a villain! lost to love and truth!

That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art,

Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth?

Curse on his perjur'd arts! dissembling smoothe!

Are Honor, Virtue, Conscience, all exil'd?

Is there no Pity, no relenting Ruth,

Points to the Parents fondling o'er their Child?

Then paints the ruin'd Maid, and their distraction wild!

XI

But now the Supper crowns their simple board,

The healsome Porritch, chief of SCOTIA'S food:

The soupe their only Hawkie does afford,

That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her cood:

The Dame brings forth, in complimental mood,

To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd kebbuck, fell;

And aft he's prest, and aft he ca's it guid;

The frugal Wifie, garrulous, will tell,

How 'twas a towmond auld, sin' Lint was i' the bell.

XII

The chearfu' Supper done, wi' serious face,

They, round the ingle, form a circle wide;

The Sire turns o'er, with patriarchal grace,

The big ha'-Bible, ance his Father's pride:

His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside,

His lyart haffets wearing thin and bare;

Those strains that once did sweet in ZION glide,

He wales a portion with judicious care;

»And let us worship GOD!« he says with solemn air.

XIII

They chant their artless notes in simple guise;

They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim:

Perhaps Dundee's wild-warbling measures rise,

Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the name;

Or noble Elgin beets the heaven-ward flame,

The sweetest far of SCOTIA'S holy lays:

Compar'd with these, Italian trills are tame;

The tickl'd ears no heart-felt raptures raise;

Nae unison hae they, with our CREATOR'S praise.

XIV

The priest-like Father reads the sacred page,

How Abram was the Friend of GOD on high;

Or, Moses bade eternal warfare wage,

With Amalek's ungracious progeny;

Or how the royal Bard did groaning lye,

Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire;

Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry;

Or rapt Isiah's wild, seraphic fire;

Or other Holy Seers that tune the sacred lyre.

XV

Perhaps the Christian Volume is the theme;

How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed;

How HE, who bore in Heaven the second name,

Had not on Earth whereon to lay His head:

How His first followers and servants sped;

The Precepts sage they wrote to many a land:

How he, who lone in Patmos, banished,

Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand;

And heard great Bab'lon's doom pronounc'd by Heaven's command.

XVI

Then kneeling down to HEAVEN'S ETERNAL KING,

The Saint, the Father, and the Husband prays:

Hope »springs exulting on triumphant wing,«1

That thus they all shall meet in future days:

There, ever bask in uncreated rays,

No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear,

Together hymning their CREATOR'S praise

In such society, yet still more dear;

While circling Time moves round in an eternal sphere.

XVII

Compar'd with this, how poor Religion's pride,

In all the pomp of method, and of art,

When men display to congregations wide,

Devotion's ev'ry grace, except the heart!

The POWER, incens'd, the Pageant will desert,

The pompous strain, the sacredotal stole;

But haply, in some Cottage far apart,

May hear, well pleas'd, the language of the Soul;

And in His Book of Life the Inmates poor enroll.

XVIII

Then homeward all take off their sev'ral way;

The youngling Cottagers retire to rest:

The Parent-pair their secret homage pay,

And proffer up to Heaven the warm request,

That »HE who stills the ravens clam'rous nest,

And decks the lily fair in flow'ry pride,

Would, in the way His Wisdom sees the best,

For them and for their little ones provide;

But chiefly, in their hearts with Grace divine preside.«

XIX

From Scenes like these, old SCOTIA'S grandeur springs,

That makes her lov'd at home, rever'd abroad:

Princes and lords are but the breath of kings,

»An honest man's the noble work of GOD:«

And certes, in fair Virtue's heavenly road,

The Cottage leaves the Palace far behind:

What is a lordling's pomp? a cumbrous load,

Disguising oft the wretch of human kind,

Studied in arts of Hell, in wickedness refin'd!

XX

O SCOTIA! my dear, my native soil!

For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent!

Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil

Be blest with health and peace and sweet content!

And O may Heaven their simple lives prevent

From Luxury's contagion, weak and vile!

Then howe'er crowns and coronets be rent,

A virtuous Populace may rise the while,

And stand a wall of fire, around their much-lov'd ISLE.

XXI

O THOU! who pour'd the patriotic tide,

That stream'd thro' great, unhappy WALLACE' heart;

Who dar'd to, nobly, stem tyrannic pride,

Or nobly die, the second glorious part:

(The Patriot's GOD, peculiarly thou art,

His friend, inspirer, guardian and reward!)

O never, never SCOTIA'S realm desert,

But still the Patriot, and the Patriot-bard,

In bright succession raise, her Ornament and Guard!

The following POEM will, by many Readers, be well enough understood; but, for the sake of those who are unacquainted with the manners and traditions of the country where the scene is cast, Notes are added, to give some account of the principal Charms and Spells of that Night, so big with Prophecy to the Peasantry in the West of Scotland. The passion of prying into Futurity makes a striking part of the history of Human-nature, in it's rude state, in all ages and nations; and it may be some entertainment to a philosophic mind, if any such should honor the Author with a perusal, to see the remains of it, among the more unenlightened in our own.

1 Popes Windsor Forest.

Halloween1

Yes! let the Rich deride, the Proud disdain,

The simple pleasures of the lowly train;

To me more dear, congenial to my heart,

One native charm, than all the gloss of art.

Goldsmith

.

I

Upon that night, when Fairies light,

On Cassilis Downans2 dance,

Or owre the lays, in splendid blaze,

On sprightly coursers prance;

Or for Colean, the rout is taen,

Beneath the moon's pale beams;

There, up the Cove,3 to stray an' rove,

Amang the rocks an' streams

To sport that night.

II

Amang the bonie, winding banks,

Where Doon rins, wimplin, clear,

Where BRUCE4 ance rul'd the martial ranks,

An' shook his Carrick spear,

Some merry, friendly, countra folks,

Together did convene,

To burn their nits, an' pou their stocks,

An' haud their Halloween

Fu' blythe that night.

III

The lasses feat, an' cleanly neat,

Mair braw than when they're fine;

Their faces blythe, fu' sweetly kythe,

Hearts leal, an' warm, an' kin':

The lads sae trig, wi' wooer-babs,

Weel knotted on their garten,

Some unco blate, an' some wi' gabs,

Gar lasses hearts gang startin

Whyles fast at night.

IV

Then, first an' foremost, thro' the kail,

Their stocks5 maun a' be sought ance;

They steek their een, an' grape an' wale,

For muckle anes, an' straught anes.

Poor hav'rel Will fell aff the drift,

An' wander'd thro' the Bow-kail,

An' pow't, for want o' better shift,

A runt was like a sow-tail

Sae bow't that night.

V

Then, straught or crooked, yird or nane,

They roar an' cry a' throw'ther;

The vera wee-things, toddlan, rin,

Wi' stocks out owre their shouther:

An' gif the custock's sweet or sour,

Wi' joctelegs they taste them;

Syne coziely, aboon the door,

Wi' cannie care, they've plac'd them

To lye that night.

VI

The lasses staw frae 'mang them a',

To pou their stalks o' corn;6

But Rab slips out, an' jinks about,

Behint the muckle thorn:

He grippet Nelly hard an' fast;

Loud skirl'd a' the lasses;

But her tap-pickle maist was lost,

When kiutlan in the Fause-house7

Wi' him that night.

VII

The auld Guidwife's weel-hoordet nits8

Are round an' round divided,

An' monie lads an' lasses fates

Are there that night decided:

Some kindle, couthie, side by side,

An' burn thegither trimly;

Some start awa, wi' saucy pride,

An' jump out owre the chimlie

Fu' high that night.

VIII

Jean slips in twa, wi' tentie e'e;

Wha 'twas, she wadna tell;

But this is Jock, an' this is me,

She says in to hersel:

He bleez'd owre her, an' she owre him,

As they wad never mair part,

Till fuff! he started up the lum,

An' Jean had e'en a sair heart

To see't that night.

IX

Poor Willie, wi' his bow-kail runt,

Was brunt wi' primsie Mallie;

An' Mary, nae doubt, took the drunt,

To be compar'd to Willie:

Mall's nit lap out, wi' pridefu' fling,

An' her ain fit, it brunt it;

While Willie lap, an' swoor by jing,

'Twas just the way he wanted

To be that night.

X

Nell had the Fause-house in her min',

She pits hersel an' 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, stownlins, prie'd her bonie mou,

Fu' cozie in the neuk for't,

Unseen that night.

XI

But Merran sat behint their backs,

Her thoughts on Andrew Bell;

She lea'es them gashan at their cracks,

An' slips out by hersel:

She thro' the yard the nearest taks,

An' for the kiln she goes then,

An' darklins grapet for the bauks,

And in the blue-clue9 throws then,

Right fear't that night.

XII

An' ay she win't, an' ay she swat,

I wat she made nae jaukin;

Till something held within the pat,

Guid L–d! but she was quaukin!

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.

XIII

Wee Jenny to her Graunie says,

»Will ye go wi' me Graunie?

I'll eat the apple10 at the glass,

I gat frae uncle Johnie:«

She fuff't her pipe wi' sic a lunt,

In wrath she was sae vap'rin,

She notic't na, an aizle brunt

Her braw, new, worset apron

Out thro' that night.

XIV

»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,

An' liv'd an' di'd deleeret,

On sic a night.

XV

Ae Hairst afore the Sherra-moor,

I mind't as weel's yestreen,

I was a gilpey then, I'm sure,

I was na past fyfteen:

The Simmer had been cauld an' wat,

An' Stuff was unco green;

An' ay a rantan Kirn we gat,

An' just on Halloween

It fell that night.

XVI

Our Stibble-rig was Rab M'Graen,

A clever, sturdy fallow;

His Sin gat Eppie Sim wi' wean,

That liv'd in Achmacalla:

He gat hemp-seed,11 I mind it weel,

An' he made unco light o't;

But monie a day was by himsel,

He was sae sairly frighted

That vera night.«

XVII

Then up gat fechtan Jamie Fleck,

An' he swoor by his conscience,

That he could saw hemp-seed a peck;

For it was a' but nonsense:

The auld guidman raught down the pock,

An' out a handfu' gied him;

Syne bad him slip frae 'mang the folk,

Sometime when nae ane see'd him,

An' try't that night.

XVIII

He marches thro' amang the stacks,

Tho' he was something sturtan;

The graip he for a harrow taks,

An' haurls at his curpan:

And ev'ry now an' then, he says,

»Hemp-seed I saw thee,

An' her that is to be my lass,

Come after me an' draw thee

As fast this night.«

XIX

He whistl'd up lord Lenox' march,

To keep his courage cheary;

Altho' his hair began to arch,

He was sae fley'd an' eerie:

Till presently he hears a squeak,

An' then a grane an' gruntle;

He by his showther gae a keek,

An' tumbled wi' a wintle

Out owre that night.

XX

He roar'd a horrid murder-shout,

In dreadfu' desperation!

An' young an' auld come rinnan out,

An' hear the sad narration:

He swoor 'twas hilchan Jean M'Craw,

Or crouchie Merran Humphie,

Till stop! she trotted thro' them a';

An' wha was it but Grumphie

Asteer that night?

XXI

Meg fain wad to the Barn gaen,

To winn three wechts o' naething;12

But for to meet the Deil her lane,

She pat but little faith in:

She gies the Herd a pickle nits,

An' twa red cheeket apples,

To watch, while for the Barn she sets,

In hopes to see Tam Kipples

That vera night.

XXII

She turns the key, wi' cannie thraw,

An' owre the threshold ventures;

But first on Sawnie gies a ca',

Syne bauldly in she enters:

A ratton rattl'd up the wa',

An' she cry'd, L–d preserve her!

An' ran thro' midden-hole an' a',

An' pray'd wi' zeal and fervour,

Fu' fast that night.

XXIII

They hoy't out Will, wi' sair advice;

They hecht him some fine braw ane;

It chanc'd the Stack he faddom't thrice,13

Was timmer-propt for thrawin:

He taks a swirlie, auld moss-oak,

For some black, grousome Carlin;

An' loot a winze, an' drew a stroke,

Till skin in blypes cam haurlin

Aff 's nieves that night.

XXIV

A wanton widow Leezie was,

As cantie as a kittlen;

But Och! that night, amang the shaws,

She gat a fearfu' settlin!

She thro' the whins, an' by the cairn,

An' owre the hill gaed scrievin,

Whare three Lairds' lan's met at a burn,14

To dip her left sark-sleeve in,

Was bent that night.

XXV

Whyles owre a linn the burnie plays,

As thro' the glen it wimpl't;

Whyles round a rocky scar it strays;

Whyles in a wiel it dimpl't;

Whyles glitter'd to the nightly rays,

Wi' bickerin, dancin dazzle;

Whyles cooket underneath the braes,

Below the spreading hazle

Unseen that night.

XXVI

Amang the brachens, on the brae,

Between her an' the moon,

The Deil, or else an outler Quey,

Gat up an' gae a croon:

Poor Leezie's heart maist lap the hool;

Near lav'rock-height she jumpet,

But mist a fit, an' in the pool,

Out owre the lugs she plumpet,

Wi' a plunge that night.

XXVII

In order, on the clean hearth-stane,

The Luggies15 three are ranged;

And ev'ry time great care is taen,

To see them duely changed:

Auld, uncle John, wha wedlock's joys,

Sin' Mar's-year did desire,

Because he gat the toom dish thrice,

He heav'd them on the fire,

In wrath that night.

XXVIII

Wi' merry sangs, an' friendly cracks,

I wat they did na weary;

And unco tales, an' funnie jokes,

Their sports were cheap an' cheary:

Till butter'd So'ns,16 wi' fragrant lunt,

Set a' their gabs a steerin;

Syne, wi' a social glass o' strunt,

They parted aff careerin

Fu' blythe that night.

1 Is thought to be a night when Witches, Devils, and other mischief-making beings, are all abroad on their baneful, midnight errands: particularly, those aerial people, the Fairies, are said, on that night, to hold a grand Anniversary.

2 Certain little, romantic, rocky, green hills, in the neighbourhood of the ancient seat of the Earls of Cassilis.

3 A noted cavern near Colean-house, called the Cove of Colean; which, as well as Cassilis Downans, is famed, in country story, for being a favourite haunt of Fairies.

4 The famous family of that name, the ancestors of ROBERT the great Deliverer of his country, were Earls of Carrick.

5 The first ceremony of Halloween, is, pulling each a Stock, or plant of kail. They must go out, hand in hand, with eyes shut, and pull the first they meet with: its being big or little, straight or crooked, is prophetic of the size and shape of the grand object of all their Spells – the husband or wife. If any yird, or earth, stick to the root, that is tocher, or fortune; and the taste of the custoc, that is, the heart of the stem, is indicative of the natural temper and disposition. Lastly, the stems, or to give them their ordinary appellation, the runts, are placed somewhere above the head of the door; and the christian names of the people whom chance brings into the house, are, according to the priority of placing the runts, the names in question.

6 They go to the barn-yard, and pull each, at three several times, a stalk of Oats. If the third stalk wants the top-pickle, that is, the grain at the top of the stalk, the party in question will come to the marriage-bed any thing but a Maid.

7 When the corn is in a doubtful state, by being too green, or wet, the Stack-builder, by means of old timber, &c. makes a large apartment in his stack, with an opening in the side which is fairest exposed to the wind: this he calls a Fause-house.

8 Burning the nuts is a favourite charm. They name the lad and lass to each particular nut, as they lay them in the fire; and according as they burn quietly together, or start from beside one another, the course and issue of the Courtship will be.

9 Whoever would, with success, try this spell, must strictly observe these directions. Steal out, all alone, to the kiln, and, darkling, throw into the pot, a clew of blue yarn: wind it in a new clew off the old one; and towards the latter end, something will hold the thread: demand, wha hauds? i.e. who holds? and answer will be returned from the kiln-pot, by naming the christian and sirname of your future Spouse.

10 Take a candle, and go, alone, to a looking glass: eat an apple before it, and some traditions say you should comb your hair all the time: the face of your conjugal companion, to be, will be seen in the glass, as if peeping over your shoulder.

11 Steal out, unperceived, and sow a handful of hemp seed; harrowing it with any thing you can conveniently draw after you. Repeat, now and then, »Hemp seed I saw thee, Hemp seed I saw thee; and him (or her) that is to be my true-love, come after me and pou thee.« Look over your left shoulder, and you will see the appearance of the person invoked, in the attitude of pulling hemp. Some traditions say, »come after me and shaw thee,« that is, show thyself; in which case it simply appears. Others omit the harrowing, and say, »come after me and harrow thee.«

12 This charm must likewise be performed, unperceived and alone. You go to the barn, and open both doors; taking them off the hinges, if possible; for there is danger, that the Being, about to appear, rnay shut the doors, and do you some mischief.