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D Ε Α Τ Η
SOME books are lies frae end to end, ,
In holy rapture,
A roufing whid, at times, to vend,
And nail't wi' Scripture. But this that I am gaun to tell, Which lately on a night befel,
Is just as true's the Deil's in h--11
Or Dublin city :
That e'er he nearer comes oursel
'S a muckle pity.
THE Clachan yill had made me canty,
I was na fou, but just had plenty ;
To free the ditches;
An' hillocks, ftanes, an' buhes, kenn'd ay
Frae ghaists an' witches.
The rising Moon began to glowr
To count her horns, wi' a' my pow'r,
I set mysel;
But whether the had three or four,
I cou'd na tell.
I was come round about the hill,
And todlin down on Willie's mill,
Setting my staff wi' a' my skill,
To keep me ficker ;
Tho' leeward whyles, against my will,
I took a bicker,
I THERE wi' Something did forgather,
Clear dangling, hang;
A three-tae'd leifter on the ither
Lay, large an' lang.
Its ftature seem'd lang Scotch ells twa.
For fient a wame it had ava ;
And then its fhanks,
They were as thin, as sharp an' [ma'
As cheeks o' branks,
Guid-een,' quo' I; Friend ! hae ye been mawin,
• When ither folk are busy sawin *?'
It seem'd to mak a kind o' stan,'
But naething spak; At length, says I, 'Friend, whare ye gaun,
ye go back!
It spak right howe,-'My name is Death,
* This recounter happened in seed-time, 1785.
• Ye're may be come to stap my breath;
“But tent me billie;
. I red ye weel, tak care o skaith,
See there's a gully!'
Gudeman,' quo' he, 'put up your whittle,
"To be mislear'd,
• I wad na mind it, no that spittle
"Out-owre my beard.'
Weel, weel!' says I, 'a bargain be't;
a ; Come, gies your hand, an' sae we're gree't ;
We'll ease our fhanks an' tak a seat,
Come, gies your news;