2
THE GHAIST.
CAULD was the night—bleak blow the whistlin wind,
And frae the red nose fell the drizzlin drap,
Whilk the numb'd fingers scantly cou'd dight aft,
Sae dozen't wi' the drift, that thick’ning flew,
In puir auld Gibby's face, an' dang him blin'.
Soir sair he pegl'd, and feught against the storm,
But aft forfaughen turu'd tail to the blast,
Lean'd him upo' his rung, and tuke his treath:
Puir Bawty, whinging, crap o' his lee side,
Wi's tail a-tween his feet, and shuke his lugs—
Gibby's auld-heart was wae for the dumb brute,
An', loutin' down, he hap't him wi' his plaid,
Clappit his head, and cry'd, "Poor fallow whisht;
"And gif I'm spair't to reach some biggit waws,
"Ye's win as near the ingle as mysel',
"And share my supper too-But we maun on—
"The night grows mirker,—an' nae noon nor starne
"We'll see the night. Sae let us face the blast,
"An' to a stay brae set as stout a heart."
Sae cheer't he his pcor bruté, and he was cheer't,
His plaid he fasten't, and he seiz't his kent,
An' to the stay brae his stout heart he set,
An' bauldly met the blast:—lang, lang he gade,
Aften he fell, and raise, and gade again,
Till he dought scarce gang mair.—When (wow, poor body!)
Quite dowf and dozen'd, thro' the drift he saw:
