THE FARMER'S INGLE.

O' warlocks loupin round the wirrikow:

O' ghaists that win in glen and kirkyard drear, Whilk touzles a' their tap, and gars them shake wi'. fear!

For weel she trows that fiends and fairies be

Sent frae the deil to fleetch us to our ill; That kye hae tint their milk wi' evil e'e ;

And corn been scowder'd on the glowin kill.. O mock na this, my friends! but rather mourn, Ye in life's brawest spring wi' reason clear; Wi' eild our idle fancies a' return,

And dim our dolefu' days wi' bairnly fear; The mind's ay cradled whan the grave is near.

Yet thrift, industrious, bides her latest days,

her sair-dow'd front wi' runcles wave;

Yet frae the russet lap the spindle plays;

Her e'enin stent reels she as weel's the lave...

THE FARMER'S INGLE.

On some feast-day, the wee things, buskit braw,
Shall heeze her heart up wi' a silent joy,
Fu cadgie that her head was up, and saw
Her ain spun cleedin on a darling boy;
Careless tho' death should mak the feast her foy.

In its auld lerroch yet the deas remains,

Whare the gudeman aft streeks him at his ease;

A warm and canny lean for weary banes

Round him will baudrons and the collie come,
To wag their tail, and cast a thankfu' e'e
To him wha kindly flings them mony a crum
O' kebbuck whang'd, and dainty fadge to prie;
This a' the boon they crave, and a' the fee.

Frae him the lads their mornin counsel tak; What stacks he wants to thrash; what rigs to

till;

THE FARMER'S INGLE.

How big a birn maun lie on Bassie's back,
For meal and mu'ter to the thirlin mill.

Neist, the gudewife her hirelin damsels bids

Glowr thro' the byre, and see the hawkies bound; Tak tent, 'case Crummy tak her wonted tids,

And ca' the laiglen's treasure on the ground, Whilk spills a kebbuck nice, or yellow pound.

Then a' the house for sleep begin to grien,
Their joints to slack frae industry a-while;
The leaden god fa's heavy on their een,

And hafflins steeks them frae their daily toil; The cruizie too can only blink and bleer;

The restit ingle's done the maist it dow; Tacksman and cotter eke to bed maun steer, Upo' the cod to clear their drumly pow, Till wauken'd by the dawnin's ruddy glow.

Peace to the husbandman and a' his tribe,

Whase care fells a' our wants frae year to year!

THE FARMER'S INGLE.

Lang may his sock, and cou'ter turn the glybe, And banks o' corn bend down wi' laded ear!

May, Scotia's simmers ay look gay and green; Her yellow har'sts frae scowry blasts decreed! May a' her tenants sit fu' snug and bien,

Frae the hard grip o' ails, and poortith freed; And a lang lasting train o' peacefu' hours suc