THE FARMER'S HA'. IN winter nights, wha e'er has seen And heart enamour'd, Nor langs to see the town, I ween, That houff o' clamour. Whan stately stacks are tightly theekit, For his lang hame, But wad gie mair for ae short week o't Hire-women ay the glowmin hail, That halesome wark : Disease about they dinna trail, Like city spark. They a' drive to the ingle cheek, And well their meikle fingers beek, To gie them tune, Syne sutors al'son nimbly streek, To mend their shoon.. They pu' and rax the lingel tails, They make great rackets, And set about their heels wi' rails O' clinking tackets. And ay till this misthriven age, He spent the night; But now he sits in chamber cage, A pridefu' wight. The lasses wi' their unshod heels, And bows like wand: The auld gudewife the pirny reels Wi' tenty hand. The carlin, ay for spinning bent, Tells them right aft, they've fawn ahint, |