But och! that night, amang the shaws,
She got a fearfu' settlin!

She through the whins, an' by the cairn,
An' owre the hill gaed scrievin,

Whare three lairds' lands met at a burn *,
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 scar 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 brachens, on the brae,
Between her an' the moon,
The deil, or else an outler quey,

Gat up an' gie a croon :

Poor Leezie's heart maist lap the hool;
Near laverock height she jumpit,

* 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.

D

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* are ranged,
And every 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 heaved them on the fire

In wrath that night.

Wi' merry sangs, an' friendly cracks,

I wat they didna weary;

An' unco tales, an' funnie jokes,

Their sports were cheap an' cheery;
Till butter'd so'ns †, wi fragrant lunt,
Set a' their gabs a steerin;

* 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 foretels, 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.

Syne, wi' a social glass o' strunt,
They parted aff careerin

Fu' blythe that night.

ELEGY ON CAPTAIN M. HENDERSON,

A gentleman who held the patent for his honours immediately from Almighty God.

But now his radiant course is run,
For Matthew's course was bright;
His soul was like the glorious sun,
A matchless, heavenly Light.

O Death! thou tyrant fell and bloody!
The meikle devil wi' a woodie
Haurl thee hame to his black smiddie,

O'er hurcheon hides,

And like stock-fish come o'er his studdie
Wi' thy auld sides!

He's gane, he's gane! he's frae us torn,
The ae best fellow e'er was born!

Thee, Matthew, Nature's sel shall mourn

By wood and wild,

Where, haply, pity strays forlorn,

Frae man exiled.

Ye hills, near neebors o' the starns,
That proudly cock your cresting cairns!
Ye cliffs, the haunts of sailing earns,

Where echo slumbers!

Come join, ye Nature's sturdiest bairns,
My wailing numbers!

Mourn, ilka grove the cushat kens!
Ye hazelly shaws and briery dens!

Ye burnies, wimplin down your glens,
Wi' toddlin din,

Or foaming strang, wi' hasty stens,
Frae lin to lin.

Mourn, little harebells o'er the lee;
Ye stately foxgloves fair to see;
Ye woodbines hanging bonnilie,

In scented bowers;

Ye roses on your thorny tree,

The first o' flowers.

At dawn, when every grassy blade
Droops with a diamond at his head,
At even when beans their fragrance shed,
I' th' rustling gale,

Ye maukins whiddin through the glade,
Come join my wail.

Mourn, ye wee songsters o' the wood;
Ye grouse that crap the heather bud:
Ye curlews calling through a clud;

Ye whistling plover; And mourn, ye whirring paitrick brood; He's gane for ever!

Mourn, sooty coots, and speckled teals,

Ye fisher herons, watching eels;
Ye duck and drake, wi' airy wheels

Circling the lake;

Ye bitterns, till the quagmire reels,

Rair for his sake.

Mourn, clamoring craiks at close o' day, 'Mang fields o' flowering clover gay; And when ye wing your annual way

Frae our cauld shore,

Tell thae far warlds, wha lies in clay,
Wham we deplore.

Ye houlets, frae your ivy bower,
In some auld tree, or eldritch tower,
What time the moon, wi' silent glowr,
Sets up her horn,

Wail through the dreary midnight hour
Till waukrife morn!

O rivers, forests, hills and plains!
Oft have ye heard my canty strains :
But now, what else for me remains

But tales of woe;

And frae my een the drappin rains

Maun ever flow.

Mourn, Spring, thou darling of the year!
Ilk cowslip cup shall kep a tear:

Thou, Simmer, while each corny spear
Shoots up its head,

Thy gay, green, flowery tresses shear,

For him that's dead!

Thou, Autumn, wi' thy yellow hair,
In grief thy sallow mantle tear!
Thou, Winter, hurling through the air

The roaring blast,

Wide o'er the naked world declare

The worth we've lost.

Mourn him, thou Sun, great source of light! Mourn, empress of the silent night!

And you, ye twinkling starnies bright,

My Matthew mourn!

For through your orbs he's ta'en his flight,

Ne'er to return.