Then up gat fechtin' Jamie Fleck,
And he swore by his conscience,
That he could saw hemp-seed a peck;
For it was a' but nonsense.
The auld guidman raught down the pock,
And out a handfu' gied him ;
Syne bade him slip frae 'mang the folk,
Some time when nae ane see'd him,
And try't that night,
He marches through amang the stacks,
Though he was something sturtin;
The graip he for a harrow taks,
And hauls it at his curpin;
And every now and then he says,
Hemp-seed, I saw thee,
And her that is to be my lass,
Come after me, and draw thee
As fast this night."
He whistled up Lord Lennox' march
To keep his courage cheery;
Although his hair began to arch,
He was say 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 wintle
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 swore 'twas hilchin Jean M'Craw,
Or crouchie Merran Humphie,
Till, stop she trotted through them a'-
And wha was it but grumphie
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 nicht.
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;
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, 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' !
She through the whins, and by the cairn, And owre the hill gaed serievin,
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,
Amang the brackens, on the brae,
Between her and 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 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,
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 toom 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,
Set a' their gabs a-steerin';
Syne, wi' a social glass o' strunt,
They parted aff careerin'
Fu' blythe that night.
Never bound by Winter's chains! Glowing here on golden sands,
There commix'd with foulest stains
From tyranny's empurpled bands:
These, their richly-gleaming waves,
I leave to tyrants and their slaves;
Give me the stream that sweetly laves
The banks by Castle-Gordon.
Spicy forests, ever gay,
Shading from the burning ray
Hapless wretches sold to toil,
Or the ruthless native's way,
Bent on slaughter, blood, and spoil :
Woods that ever verdant wave,
I leave the tyrant and the slave;
Give me the groves that lofty brave
The storms by Castle-Gordon.
Wildly here without control,
Nature reigns and rules the whole;
In that sober pensive mood,
Dearest to the feeling soul,
She plants the forest, pours the flood:
Life's poor day I'll musing rave,
And find at night a sheltering cave,
Where waters flow and wild woods wave,
By bonny Castle-Gordon.
INSCRIPTION ON THE TOMBSTONE ERECTED
BY BURNS TO THE MEMORY
OF FERGUSSON.
"Here lies Robert Fergusson, Poet, born 5th Sept. 1751. Died 16th October 1774."
No marble here, lay,
"No storied urn, nor animated bust ;
This simple stone directs pale Scotia's way
To pour her sorrows o'er her Poet's dust.
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