23
Whan we were wearied at the gouff,
Then Maggy Simpson’s was our houff,
Now a’ our gamesters may sit douff,
Wi’ hearts like lead,
Death wi’ his run reach’d her a youff,
An’ sae she’s dead.
Maun we be forc’d thy skill to tine,
For which we will right sair repine?
Or hast thou left to bairns o’ thine
The pauky knack,
O’ brewing ale amaist like wine,
That gar’d us crack?
Sae brawly did a pease-scone tost,
Biz i’ the quaff, and flee the frost,
There we gat fu’ wi’ little cost,
An’ muckle speed :
Now wae worth death, our sport’s a’ lost.
Since Maggy’s dead.
Ae summer night I was sae fu’,
Amang the riggs I gaed to spew,
Syne down on a green bank I trow,
I took a nap,
An’ sought a’ night Balillilu,
As sound’s a tap.
An’ whan the dawn began to glow,
I birsled up my dizzy pow,
Frae ’mang the corn like worry cow,
Wi’ banes fu’ sair,
An’ kend nae mair than if a yow.
How I came there.
