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He whistled up Lord Lennox' march
To keep his courage cheery;
Although his hair began to arch,
He was sae fley'd and eerie:
Till presently he hears a squeak,
And then a grane and gruntle;
He by his shouther gae a keek,
And tumbled wi' a wintle2

Out-owre that night.

He roar'd a horrid murder-shout,

In dreadfu' desperation!

And young and auld cam rinnin' out

To hear the sad narration:

He swcie 'twas hilchin' Jean M'Craw,
Or crouchie Merran Humphie,
Till, stop! she trotted through them a'-
And wha was it but grumphie5

Asteer that night!

Meg fain wad to the barn hae gaen,
To win three wechts" o' naething;
But for to meet the deil her lane,

She pat but little faith in :

She gies the herd a pickle nits,
And twa red-cheekit apples,
To watch, while for the barn she sets,
In hopes to see Tam Kipples
That very night.

She turns the key wi' cannie thraw,

And owre the threshold ventures;
But first on Sawnie gies a ca',
Syne bauldly in she enters:

A ratton rattled up the wa',

*

And she cried, Lord, preserve her!
And ran through midden-hole and a',
And 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;

1 Frightened.

2 Staggering.

3 Halting.

4 Crookbacked.

5 The pig.

6 Corn-baskets.

7 Few.

8 Urged.
9 Promised.

*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.-B.

1 Knotty.

It chanced the stack he faddom't thrice *
Was timmer-propt for thrawin';
He taks a swirlie, auld moss-oak,

For some black, grousome carlin;
And loot a winze, 3 and drew a stroke,
Till skin in blypes cam haurlin'
Aff's nieves that night.

A wanton widow Leezie was,

As canty as a kittlin;

But, och! that night, amang the shaws,

She got a fearfu' settlin'!

6

She through the whins, and by the cairn,
And owre the hill gaed scrievin,

Whare 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 through the glen it wimpl't;
Whyles round a rocky scaur 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 hazel,

Unseen that night.

Amang the brackens, on the brae,
Between her and the moon,
The deil, or else an outler quey,8

2 Hideous. 3 An oath.

4 Shreds.

Gat up and gae a croon :

Poor Leezie's heart maist lap the hool! 10

Near lav'rock-height she jumpit ;

But mist a fit, and 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,

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* Take an opportunity of going unnoticed to a bean-stack, and fathom it three times round. The last fathom of the last time, you will catch in your arms the appearance of your future conjugal yoke-fellow.-B.

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 object in question, will come and turn the sleeve, as if to dry the other side of it.-B.

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

And every 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 toom1 dish thrice,
He heaved them on the fire

In wrath that night.

Wi' merry sangs, and friendly cracks,
I wat they didna weary;

And unco tales, and funny jokes,

Their sports were cheap and cheery;
Till butter'd so'ns,* wi' fragrant lunt,2
Set a' their gabs3 a-steerin';

Syne, wi' a social glass o' strunt,*

They parted aff careerin'

Fu' blythe that night.

MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN.

A DIRGE.

GILBERT BURNS tells us that "several of the poems were produced for the purpose of bringing forward some favourite sentiment of the author's. He' used to remark to me that he could not well conceive a more mortifying picture of human life than a man seeking work, In casting about in his mind how this sentiment might be brought forward, the elegy, 'Man was Made to Mourn,' was composed.

An old Scottish ballad had suggested the poem. "I had an old granduncle," says the poet to Mrs. Dunlop, "with whom my mother lived a while in her girlish years. The good old man was long blind ere he died, during which time his highest enjoyment was to sit down and cry, while my mother would sing the simple old song of 'The Life and Age of Man." From the poet's mother, Mr. Cromek procured a copy of this composition; it commences

thus:

1 Empty.

"Upon the sixteen hundred year

Of God and fifty-three

Frae Christ was born, who bought us dear,
As writings testifie;

On January the sixteenth day,

As I did lie alone,

With many a sigh and sob did say

Ah! man was made to moan!

WHEN chill November's surly blast
Made fields and forests bare,
One evening, as I wander'd forth
Along the banks of Ayr,

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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 foretells, with equal certainty, no marriage at all. It is repeated three times, and every time the arrangement of the dishes is altered.-B.

*Sowens.-The shell of the corn (called shellings) is left in water until the fine meal particles are extracted; the liquid, when strained off, is boiled with butter.

!

I spied 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.

"Young stranger, whither wanderest thou?"
Began the reverend 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.

"The sun that overhangs yon moors,
Outspreading 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 every time has added proofs
That man was made to mourn.

"O man! while in thy early years,
How prodigal of time!
Misspending 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.

"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.

"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 crowds in every land
Are wretched and forlorn!
Through weary life this lesson learn-
That man was made to mourn.

"Many and sharp the numerous ills
Inwoven with our frame!

More pointed still we make ourselves—
Regret, remorse, and shame!

And man, whose heaven-erected face
The smiles of love adorn,
Man's inhumanity to man

Makes countless thousands mourn!

"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, though a weeping wife
And helpless offspring mourn.

"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 power
To make his fellow mourn?

"Yet let not this too much, my son,
Disturb thy youthful breast;
This partial view of humankind
Is surely not the last!

The poor, oppressed, honest man,

Had never, sure, been born,

Had there not been some recompense

To comfort those that mourn.

"O Death! the poor man 5 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 !"

THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT.

INSCRIBED TO ROBERT AIKEN, ESQ.

GILBERT BURNS says in regard to this fine poem :-"Robert had frequently remarked to me that he thought there was something peculiarly venerable in the phrase, 'Let us worship God!' used by a decent, sober head of a family, introducing family worship. To this sentiment of the author, the world is indebted for The Cotter's Saturday Night.' When Robert had not some pleasure in view in which I was not thought fit to participate, we used frequently to walk together, when the weather was favourable, on the Sunday afternoons -those precious breathing times to the labouring part of the community-and enjoyed such Sundays as would make one regret to see their number abridged. It was in one of these walks that I first had the pleasure of hearing the author repeat 'The Cotter's Saturday Night.' I do not recollect to have read or heard anything by which I was more highly electrified. The fifth and sixth stanzas,

C

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