i was na past fyfteen:
the simmer had been cauld an' wat,
an' stuff was unco green;
an' eye a rantin kirn we gat,
an' just on halloween
it fell that night.
“our stibble-rig was rab m'graen,
a clever, sturdy fallow;
his sin gat eppie sim wi' wean,
that lived in achmacalla:
he gat hemp-seed,【2】 i mind it weel,
an'he made unco light o't;
but mony a day was by himsel',
he was sae sairly frighted
that vera night.”
【2】steal out, unperceived, and sow a handful of hemp-seed, harrowing it with anything 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,e 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, e after me and shaw thee,” that is, show thyself; in which case, it simply appears. others omit the harrowing, and say: e after me and harrow thee.”—r.b.]
then up gat fechtin 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.
he marches thro' amang the stacks,
tho' he was something sturtin;
the graip he for a harrow taks,
an' haurls at his curpin:
and ev'ry now an' then, he says,
“hemp-seed i saw thee,
an' her that is to be my lass
e after me, an' draw thee
as fast this night.”
he wistl'd up lord lennox' march
to keep his courage cherry;
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 shouther gae a keek,
an' tumbled wi' a wintle
out-owre that night.
he roar'd a horrid murder-shout,
in dreadfu' desperation!
an' young an' aulde rinnin out,
an' hear the sad narration:
he swoor 'twas hilchin jean m'craw,
or crouchie merran humphie—
till stop! she trotted thro' them a';
and wha was it but grumphie
asteer that night!
meg fain wad to the barn gaen,
to winn three wechts o' naething;【3】
but for to meet the deil her lane,
she pat but little faith in:
【3】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 may shut the doors, and do you some mischief. then take that instrument used in winnowing the corn, which in our country dialect we call a “wecht,” and go through all the attitudes of letting down corn against the wind. repeat it three times, and the third time an apparition will pass through the barn, in at the windy door and out at the other, having both the figure in question, and the appearance or retinue, marking the employment or station in life.—r.b.]
she gies the herd a pickle nits,
an' twa red cheekit apples,
to watch, while for the barn she sets,
in hopes to see tam kipples
that vera night.
she turns the key wi' cannie thraw,
an'owre the threshold ventures;
but first on sawnie gies a ca',
syne baudly in she enters:
a ratton rattl'd up the wa',
an' she cry'd lord preserve her!
an' ran thro' midden-hole an' a',
an' pray'd wi' zeal and fervour,
fu' fast that night.
they hoy't out will, wi' sair advice;
they hecht him some fine braw ane;
it chanc'd the stack he faddom't thrice
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.
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,
to dip her left sark-sleeve in,
was bent that night.
whiles owre a linn the burnie plays,
as thro' the glen it wimpl't;
whiles round a rocky scar it strays,
whiles in a wiel it dimpl't;
whiles glitter'd to the nightly rays,
wi' bickerin', dancin' dazzle;
whiles cookit undeneath the braes,
below the spreading hazel
unseen that night.
amang the brachens, on the brae,
between her an' the moon,
the deil, or else an outler quey,
gat up an' ga'e 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;
an' 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.
wi' merry sangs, an' friendly cracks,
i wat they did na weary;
and unco tales, an' funnie jokes—
their sports were cheap an' cheery:
till butter'd sowens, wi' fragrant lunt,
set a' their gabs a-steerin;
syne, wi' a social glass o' strunt,
they parted aff careerin
fu' blythe that night.
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns to a mouse, on turning her up in her nest with the plough, november, 1785 to a mouse, on turning her up in her nest with the plough, november, 1785
wee, sleekit, cow'rin, 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-bornpanion,
an' fellow-mortal!
i doubt na, whiles, 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' waste,
an' weary winterin 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 mony 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,par'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!
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns epitaph on john dove, innkeeper