Whare three lairds' lands met at a burn,* Was bent that night. XXV. Whyles owre a linn the burnie plays Unseen that night.. XXVI. Amang the brachens, on the brae, Between her an' the moon, Poor Leezie's heart maist lap the hool; Wi' a plunge that night. * 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. XXVII In order, on the clean hearth-stane, Auld uncle John, wha wedlock's joys Because he gat the toom-dish thrice, He heav'd them on the fire In wrath that night. XXVIII. Wi' merry sangs, an' friendly cracks, An' unco tales, an' funnie jokes, TWO Their sports were cheap an' cheery; Fu' blithe that night. * 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 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. + Sowens, with butter instead of milk to them, is always the Halloween Supper. THE AULD FARMER'S TO HIS AULD MARE MAGGIE, On giving her the accustomed Ripp of Corn to hansel in the New A Guid New-year I wish thee Maggie! Thou could hae gaen like onie staggie Tho' now thou's dowie, stiff, an' crazy, He should been tight that daur't to raize thee, Thou ance was i' the foremast rank, As e'er tread yird! An' could hae flown out-owre a stank, It's now some nine-an-twenty year, Sin' thou was my guid father's meere 3. He gied me thee, o' tocher clear, An' fifty mark; Whare Burns has wrote, in rhyming blether, Tam Samson's dead! There low he lies, in lasting rest; Perhaps upon his mould'ring breast, Some spitefu' muirfowl bigs her nest, To hatch an' breed ; Alas! nae mair he'll them molest ! Tam Samson's dead! When August winds the heather wave, And sportsmen wander by yon grave, Three volleys let his mem'ry crave O' pouther an' lead, Till Echo answer frae her cave, Tam Samson's dead! Heav'n rest his saul, where'er he be ! Yet what remead? Ae social, honest man want we: Tam Samson's dead! THE EPITAPH. TAM SAMSON'S weel worn clay here lies, If honest worth in heaven rise, PER CONTRA. Go, Fame, and canter like a filly Thro' a' the streets an' neuks o' Killie,* Tell every social, honest billie To cease his grievin, For yet, unskaith'd by death's gleg gullie, • Killie is a phrase the country-folks sometimes use for Kilmarnock, |