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And aye as the canty shearers they
Were coming home to their kale, The Laird and Knight from every wight
Sought some of the dinner ale.
“ Ye's get the last drop in a' the house,”
They cried as they hurried in ; But ev'ry one at once began
As passing under the pin :
“O good Sir Thomas of Craigie, tak?
The warlock Laird of Fail
A drop of my dinner ale !"
And they would have sung the same till yet,
Had not the old Laird of Fail Drawn out the pin, before he went in,
To drink of the shearers ale.
WRITTEN AT A SMALL VILLAGE IN THE HIGH
LANDS OF PERTHSHIRE.
Ar break of day, when up the hills
As Summer bids the verdure spring, And birds upon the bushes sing; The cattle, grazing on the land, Till I pass by, will gazing stand. But if I to the herdsman say, " Where is the road?” he runs away : Let any person now relate, Which wildest is at Logierait.
Is it because I range around, Seeking, perhaps, what can't be found, Ye taunting birds, that make ye cry 66 Cuckoo” at me as I Ah! was I just as light and free To flit, as now ye seem to be, I soon would give, without regret, A parting glimpse at Logierait.
But frowning Fate has fix'd me here, Among these rocky mountains drear; Ah! what a sad contrast I find, Of fields and friends I left behind !
But I may still, in plaintive strain, Unto the passing wind complain ; For social friend, or kindly mate, I've none, alas! at Logierait.
INKS OF CRIE. *
This tale that I tell you, ye shall trust it well,
The Prophecy of WALDHAVE.
What makes thee bleat around this dell,
Thou woolly wand'rer of the hill ? Comest thou to view this lonely cell,
Where pines the forlorn stranger still ? Ah! couldst thou list his plaintive tale,
Compassion would awaken thee,
* The banks of Cree, from Newton Stewart to the sea, are called the Inks.