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D A TH
SOME books are lies frae end to end,
, And some great lies were never penn'd: Ev’n Ministers they hae been kenn'd,
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,
Or Dúblin 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' bushes, 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 she had three or four,
I cou'd na tell.
I was come round about the hill,
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 Itature seem'd lang Scotch ells twa.
The queerest shape that e'er I saw,
For fient a wame it had ava ;
And then its fhanks,
They were as thin, as sharp an’sima'
As cheeks o' branks.
• ' '
Guid-een,' quo'-I ; Friend ! hae ye been mawin, • When ither folk are busy fawin *?' It seem'd to mak a kind o' stan,'
But naething spak; At length, says I, 'Friend, whare ye gaun,
Will ye go back!
It spak right howe, - My name is Deatb,
* This recounter happened in sced-time, 1785.
• Ye're maybe 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, ? I'm no design'd to try its mettle ; "But if I did, I wad be kittle
< To be mislear'd,
• I wad na mind i!, 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;