Till butter'd son's,* wi' fragrant lunt,
Set a' their gabs a-steerin;

Syne, wi' a social glass o' strunt,

They parted aff careerin

Fu' blithe that night.

THE

* Sowens, with butter instead of milk to them, is

always the Halloween Supper.

THE

AULD FARMER'S

NEW-YEAR MORNING SALUTATION

TO HIS

AULD MARE MAGGIE,

On giving her the accustomed Ripp of Corn to hansel in the New Year.

A Guid New-year I wish thee, Maggie !
Hae, there's a ripp to thy auld baggie:
Tho' thou's howe-backit, now, an' knaggie,
I've seen the day,

Thou could hae gaen like onie staggie

Out-owre the lay.

Tho'

Tho' now thou's dowie, stiff, an' crazy,
An' thy auld hide's as white's a daisy,
I've seen thee dappl't, sleek, and glaizie,
A bonny gray:

He should been tight that daur't to raize thee,
Ance in a day.

Thou ance was i' the foremost rank,
A filly buirdly, steeve, an' swank,
An' set weel down a shapely shank,

As e'er tread yird;

An' could hae flown out-owre a stank,
Like onie bird.

It's now some nine-an'-twenty year, Sin' thou was my guid father's meere ; He gied me thee, o' tocher clear,

An' fifty mark;

Tho' it was sma', 'twas weel-won gear,

An' thou was stark.

When first I gaed to woo my Jenny,
Ye then was trottin wi' your minnie:
Tho'
ye was trickie, slee, an' funnie,

Ye ne'er was donsie

But hamely, tawie, quiet, an' cannie,
An' unco sonsie.

;

That

That day, ye pranc'd wi' muckle pride,
When ye bure hame my bonnie bride:
An' sweet an' gracefu' she did ride,
Wi' maiden air!

Kyle Stewart I could bragged wide,
For sic a pair.

Tho' now ye dow but hoyte and hobble, An' wintle like a saumont-coble,

That day ye was a jinker noble,

For heels an' win'!

An' ran them till they a' did wauble,
Far, far behin'.

When thou an' I were young

and skeigh,

An' stable-meals at fairs were dreigh,

How thou wad prance, an' snore, an' skreigh, An' tak the road!

Town's bodies ran, an' stood abeigh,

An' ca't thee mad.

When thou was corn't, an' I was mellow,

We took the road ay like a swallow:

At Brooses thou had ne'er a fellow,

For pith an' speed;

But ev'ry tail thou pay't them hollow,

Whare'er thou gaed.

The

The sma', droop-rumpl't, hunter cattle, Might aiblins waur't thee for a brattle;

But sax Scotch miles thou try't their mettle, An' gar't them whaizle:

Nae whip nor spur, but just a wattle

O' saugh or hazel.

Thou was a noble fittie-lan',
As e'er in tug or tow was drawn !
Aft thee an' I, in aught hours gaun,

On guid March weather,

Hae turn'd sax rood beside our han',

For days thegither.

Thou never braindg't, an' fech't, an' fliskit,
But thy auld tail thou wad hae whiskit,
An' spread abreed thy weel-fill'd brisket,
Wi' pith and pow'r,

Till spritty knowes wad rair't and risket,
An' slypet owre.

When frosts lay lang, an' snaws were deep, An' threaten'd labour back to keep,

I gied thy cog a wee-bit heap

Aboon the timmer;

I ken'd my Maggie wad na sleep

For that, or simmer.