6
"The skybald by his ain ill conscience chas't,
"Did flee the kintra—and nc'er kent the gude o't,—
"Twill mak you rich—Rise up and come awa',
"I'll shew ye whare 'tis bidden. But, now mind me,
"Under that hearth yo'll find my bains,—
"Them tak',
"And see safe yirdet into haly ground;
"Sae sall my wandering spirit be at rest,
"And may'st thou never meet a fate like mine."
Up Gibby raise,—nae daffiu' in his head,
And fallow'd his grim guide; dreary and driegh,
He pass'd the muckle yett. The cauld north win',
That blew sae loud short syne, was now fa‘n lown;
The moon shone clear upo' the new fa'n snaw,
An' made a haflin's day. When they had gane
Thro' twa-three fields, the ghaist at length stapp't short,
And grain't, and wavst his hand.—"Lo! here, (quo he,)
"Ilk bodle lies that ance to me pertain't;
"O! it is little worth whare I hae gane!
"I gi'e it a to you—Mark weel the park:
"And now, be sure, the yearding of my bains
"Dinna mislippen—O remember me!"
Nae mair he said, but whidded out of sight.
Wi' hair on end, and ilks lith and limb
Quakin wi' fear, Gibby to find a meith
Look't a' about, but nowther tree, nor buss,
Nor stane cou'd find, thro'a'the snaw spread waste.
Weary, at last, he'sat him down to sh—t;
"Eh! this (quo'he) will be a special mark!"
