Here's a health, my Scottish lassie! here's a parting health to thee;
May thine be still a cloudless lot, though it be far firom me!
May still thy laughing eye be bright, and open still thy brow,
Thy thoughts as pure, thy speech as free, thy heart as light as now!
And, whatsoe'er my after fate, my dearest toast shall be,—
Still a health, my Scottish lassie! still a hearty health to thee!
The Witch on the brae.
A' the witches langsyne were humpbackit and auld,
Clad in thin tattered rags that scarce kept out the cauld,
A' were blear-e'ed, an' toothless, an' wrinkled, an' din,
Ilka ane had an ugly grey beard on her chin;
But fu' sweet is the smile, and like snaw the bit bosom,
And black are the e'en, ay, black as the slae,
An' as blooming the cheeks as the rose's sweet blossom,
O' the bonnie young witch that wins on the brae.
They might travel at night in the shape o' a hare—
They might elfshoot a quey—they might lame a grey mare:
They might mak' the gudewife ca' in vain at her kirn,
Lose the loop o' her stocking, or ravel her pirn,—
Put the milk frae her cow, an' mae tricks as uncannie—
As queer and as deil-like as ony o' thae,
But o' a' the auld witches e'er kent by your grannie,
I could wager there's nane like the witch on the brae.
'Twere a sin to believe her colleagued wi' the deil,
Yet for a' that she casts her enchantments as weel:
An' although she ne'er rode on a stick to the moon,
She has set the auld dominie twice aff the tune.
Ay, and even Mess John ance or twice ga'e a stammer,
But brought himsel' right wi' a hum and a hae!
An' a' body says it was just wi' some glamour
Frae the twa pawkie e'en o' the witch on the brae.
No a lad i' the parish e'er gets a night's sleep,
There's no ane mak's a tryst that he ever can keep
Ilka lass far an' near fears she'll die an auld maid,
An' the piper and fiddler complain o' dull trade;
For although tailor Rab night an' day has been busy,
Yet there's nae been a waddin these sax months and mac;
An', they say, it's a' for that trig winsome hizzie,
The bit bonnie young witch that wins on the brae.
She ne'er passes the mill but the dam aye rins out,
For the miller forgets what he should be about:
Neither mason nor sclater can ane work a turn,
