7
There was ae wulsomeswench and walie,
That night enlisted in the core,
Lang after kend on Carrick-shore;
For monie, a beast to dead she shot,
And perish'd monie a bonnie boat,
And shook baith meikle corn and beam
And kept the country-side in fear;
Her cutty Sark o' Paisley-harn,
That while a lassie she had worn,
In longitude tho sorely scanty
It was her best and she was vauntie—
Ah! little kend thy reverend grannie,
That sark she coft for her wee Nannie,
Wi' twa pund Scots ('twas achier riches)
Wad e'er hae grae'd a dance o' witches.
But here my Muse: her wing maun cow'r;
Sic flights are-far beyond her pow'r;
To sing hour Nannie lap and flang,
(A souple jade ghie was and strang);
And how Tam stood like ane bewitch'd
And thougt this very een enrich'd!
Ev'n Satan glowr'd, and fidgr'd fu fain,
And hotch'd and blew wi' might and main!
Till first ae caper, syne anither,
Tam tint his reason thegither,
And roars out, Weel done cutty sarks;
And in an instant a' was dark!
And scarcely bad he Maggie rallied
When out the hellish legion sallied
As bees biz out wi' angry fyke,
When plund'ring herds assail their byke;
As open pussies portal foes,
When, pop she starts before their nose;
As eager runs the market crowd,
