LITMIR.BIZ

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gruntle;

      He by his shouther gae a keek,

      An’ tumbl’d wi’ a wintle

      Out-owre that night.

      He roar’d a horrid murder-shout,

      In dreadfu’ desperation!

      An’ young an’ auld cam rinnin’ out,

      An’ hear the sad narration;

      He swoor ’twas hilchin Jean M’Craw,

      Or crouchie Merran Humphie,

      ’Till, stop! she trotted thro’ them a’;

      An’ wha was it but Grumphie

      Asteer that night!

      Meg fain wad to the barn hae gaen,

      To win three wechts o’ naething;[39]

      But for to meet the deil her lane,

      She pat but little faith in:

      She gies the herd a pickle nits,

      An’ twa red cheekit apples,

      To watch, while for the barn she sets,

      In hopes to see Tam Kipples

      That vera night.

      She turns the key wi’ cannie thraw,

      An’ owre the threshold ventures;

      But first on Sawnie gies a ca’,

      Syne bauldly in she enters:

      A ratton rattled up the wa’,

      An’ she cried, L—d preserve her!

      An’ ran thro’ midden-hole an’ a’,

      An’ 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 chanc’d the stack he faddom’t thrice,[40]

      Was timmer-propt for thrawin’;

      He taks a swirlie auld moss-oak,

      For some black, grousome carlin;

      An’ loot a winze, an’ 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 thro’ the whins, an’ by the cairn,

      An’ owre the hill gaed scrievin,

      Whare three lairds’ lands met at a burn,[41]

      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 an’ 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, an’ in the pool

      Out-owre the lugs she plumpit,

      Wi’ a plunge that night.

      In order, on the clean hearth-stane,

      The luggies three[42] are ranged,

      And ev’ry 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 heav’d them on the fire

      In wrath that night.

      Wi’ merry sangs, and friendly cracks,

      I wat they did na weary;

      An’ unco tales, an’ funnie jokes,

      Their sports were cheap an’ cheery;

      Till butter’d so’ns[43] wi’ fragrant lunt,

      Set a’ their gabs a-steerin’;

      Syne, wi’ a social glass o’ strunt,

      They parted aff careerin’

      Fu’ blythe that night.

      XXVI. MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN. A DIRGE

      [The origin of this fine poem is alluded to by Burns in one of his letters to Mrs. Dunlop: “I had an old grand-uncle with whom my mother lived in her girlish years: the good old man was long blind ere he died, during which time his highest enjoyment was to sit and cry, while my mother would sing the simple old song of ‘The Life and Age of Man.’” From that truly venerable woman, long after the death of her distinguished son, Cromek, in collecting the Reliques, obtained a copy by recitation of the older strain. Though the tone and sentiment coincide closely with “Man was made to Mourn,” I agree with Lockhart, that Burns wrote it in obedience to his own habitual feelings.]

      When chill November’s surly blast

      Made fields and forests bare,

      One ev’ning as I wandered forth

      Along the banks of Ayr,

      I spy’d 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 wand’rest thou?”

      Began the rev’rend 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,

      Out-spreading 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 ev’ry time had 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

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