Where three lairds' lands met at a burn,*
To dip her left sark-sleeve in,

Was bent that night.

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' bickering dancing dazzle;
Whyles cookit underneath the braes,
Below the spreading hazle,

Unseen that night.

Amang the branches, on the brae,
Between her an' the moon,

The deil or else an outler quey,
Gat up, an' gie a croon :

Poor Leezie's heart maist lap the hool;
Near lav'rock-height she jumpit,
But mist a fit, an' 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 ev'ry 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 heav'd them on the fire

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,
I wat they did na weary;

An' unco tales, an' funnie jokes,

Their sports were cheap an' cheary;
Till butter'd so'ns,* wi' fragrant lunt,
Set a' their gabs a steerin;

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!
Hae, there's a ripp to thy auld baggie :
Tho' thou's howe-backit now, an' knaggie,
I've seen the day

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:
He should been tight that daur't to raize thee,
Ance in a day.

Thou ance was i' the foremost rank,
A filly buirdly, steeve, an' swank,
An' set weel down a shapely shank,

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,
Sin thou was my guid father's meere;
He gied me thee, o' tocher clear,

An' fifty mark;
Tho' it was sma', 'twas weel-won gear,

An' thou was stark.

When first I gaed to woo my Jenny,
Ye then was trotten wi' your minnie:
Tho' ye was trickie, slee, an' funnie,

Ye ne'er was donsie !

But hamely, tawie, quiet, an' cannie,

An' unco sonsie.

That day, ye pranc'd wi' muckle pride,
When ye bure hame my bonny bride:
An' 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,
An' wintle like a saumont-coble,

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,
An' stable-meals at fairs were dreigh,

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,
We took the road ay like a swallow:
At Brooses thou had ne'er a fellow,

For pith an' speed; But ev'ry tail thou pay't them hollow,

Whare'er thou gaed.

The sma', droop-rumpl't, hunter cattle,
Might aiblings waur't thee for a brattle;

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!
Aft thee an' I, in aught hours gaun,

On guid March-weather,

Hae turn'd sax rood beside our han',

For days thegither.

Thou never braindgt, an' fetch't, an' fliskit,
But thy auld tail thou wad hae whiskit,
An' spread abreed thy weel-fill'd briskit,

Wi' pith an' pow'r,

Till spritty knowes wad rair't and riskit,

An' slypet owre.

When frosts lay lang, and snaws were deep,
An' threaten'd labor back to keep,

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;
The steyest brae thou wad hae fac't it;
Thou never lap, an' sten't, an' 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 an' twa,
The vera warst.

Monie a sair daurk we hae wrought,
An' wi' the weary warl' hae fought !
An' 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,
An' 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,

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 !
Thou need na start away 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 wins are strewin!