Halloween

and other mischief-making beings are abroad on their banefulmidnight errands; particularly those aerial people, thefairies, are said on that night to hold a grand

Yes! let the rich deride, the proud disdain,The simple pleasure of the lowly train;To me more dear, congenial to my heart,One native charm, than all the gloss of art.—Goldsmith.

Upon that night, when fairies lightOn Cassilis Downans dance,Or owre the lays, in splendid blaze,On sprightly coursers prance;Or for Colean the rout is ta’en,Beneath the moon’s pale beams;There, up the Cove, to stray an’ rove,Amang the rocks and streamsTo sport that night;

Cove of Colean; which, as well as Cassilis Downans, isfamed, in country story, for being a favorite haunt of

Amang the bonie winding banks,Where Doon rins, wimplin, clear;Where Bruce ance rul’d the martial ranks,An’ shook his Carrick spear;Some merry, friendly, countra-folksTogether did convene,To burn their nits, an’ pou their stocks,An’ haud their HalloweenFu’ blythe that night.

The lasses feat, an’ cleanly neat,Mair braw than when they’re fine;Their faces blythe, fu’ sweetly kythe,Hearts leal, an’ warm, an’ kin’:The lads sae trig, wi’ wooer-babsWeel-knotted on their garten;Some unco blate, an’ some wi’ gabsGar lasses’ hearts gang startinWhiles fast at night.

Then, first an’ foremost, thro’ the kail,Their stocks maun a’ be sought ance;

They steek their een, and grape an’ waleFor muckle anes, an’ straught anes.Poor hav’rel Will fell aff the drift,An’ wandered thro’ the bow-kail,An’ pou’t for want o’ better shiftA runt was like a sow-tailSae bow’t that night.

Then, straught or crooked, yird or nane,They roar an’ cry a’ throu’ther;The vera wee-things, toddlin, rin,Wi’ stocks out owre their shouther:An’ gif the custock’s sweet or sour,Wi’ joctelegs they taste them;Syne coziely, aboon the door,Wi’ cannie care, they’ve plac’d themTo lie that night.

The lassies staw frae ’mang them a’,To pou their stalks o’ corn;But Rab slips out, an’ jinks about,Behint the muckle thorn:He grippit Nelly hard and fast:Loud skirl’d a’ the lasses;But her tap-pickle maist was lost,Whan kiutlin in the fause-houseWi’ him that night.

The auld guid-wife’s weel-hoordit nitsAre round an’ round dividend,An’ mony lads an’ lasses’ fatesAre there that night decided:Some kindle couthie side by side,And burn thegither trimly;Some start awa wi’ saucy pride,An’ jump out owre the chimlieFu’ high that night.

Jean slips in twa, wi’ tentie e’e;Wha ’twas, she wadna tell;But this is Jock, an’ this is me,She says in to hersel’:He bleez’d owre her, an’ she owre him,As they wad never mair part:Till fuff! he started up the lum,An’ Jean had e’en a sair heartTo see’t that night.

Poor Willie, wi’ his bow-kail runt,Was brunt wi’ primsie Mallie;An’ Mary, nae doubt, took the drunt,To be compar’d to Willie:Mall’s nit lap out, wi’ pridefu’ fling,An’ her ain fit, it brunt it;While Willie lap, and swore by jing,’Twas just the way he wantedTo be that night.

Nell had the fause-house in her min’,She pits hersel an’ Rob in;In loving bleeze they sweetly join,Till white in ase they’re sobbin:Nell’s heart was dancin at the view;She whisper’d Rob to leuk for’t:Rob, stownlins, prie’d her bonie mou’,Fu’ cozie in the neuk for’t,Unseen that night.

But Merran sat behint their backs,Her thoughts on Andrew Bell:She lea’es them gashin at their cracks,An’ slips out—by hersel’;She thro’ the yard the nearest taks,An’ for the kiln she goes then,An’ darklins grapit for the bauks,And in the blue-clue throws then,Right fear’t that night.

An’ ay she win’t, an’ ay she swat—I wat she made nae jaukin;Till something held within the pat,Good Lord! but she was quaukin!But whether ’twas the deil himsel,Or whether ’twas a bauk-en’,Or whether it was Andrew Bell,She did na wait on talkinTo spier that night.

Wee Jenny to her graunie says,“Will ye go wi’ me, graunie?I’ll eat the apple at the glass,I gat frae uncle Johnie:”She fuff’t her pipe wi’ sic a lunt,In wrath she was sae vap’rin,She notic’t na an aizle bruntHer braw, new, worset apronOut thro’ that night.

“Ye little skelpie-limmer’s face!I daur you try sic sportin,As seek the foul thief ony place,For him to spae your fortune:Nae doubt but ye may get a sight!Great cause ye hae to fear it;For mony a ane has gotten a fright,An’ liv’d an’ died deleerit,On sic a night.

“Ae hairst afore the Sherra-moor,I mind’t as weel’s yestreen—I was a gilpey then, I’m sureI was na past fyfteen:The simmer had been cauld an’ wat,An’ stuff was unco green;An’ eye a rantin kirn we gat,An’ just on HalloweenIt fell that night.

“Our stibble-rig was Rab M’Graen,A clever, sturdy fallow;His sin gat Eppie Sim wi’ wean,That lived in Achmacalla:He gat hemp-seed, I mind it weel,An’he made unco light o’t;But mony a day was by himsel’,He was sae sairly frightedThat vera night.”

Then up gat fechtin Jamie Fleck,An’ he swoor by his conscience,That he could saw hemp-seed a peck;For it was a’ but nonsense:The auld guidman raught down the pock,An’ out a handfu’ gied him;Syne bad him slip frae’ mang the folk,Sometime when nae ane see’d him,An’ try’t that night.

He marches thro’ amang the stacks,Tho’ he was something sturtin;The graip he for a harrow taks,An’ haurls at his curpin:And ev’ry now an’ then, he says,“Hemp-seed I saw thee,An’ her that is to be my lassCome after me, an’ draw theeAs fast this night.”

He wistl’d up Lord Lennox’ MarchTo keep his courage cherry;Altho’ his hair began to arch,He was sae fley’d an’ eerie:Till presently he hears a squeak,An’ then a grane an’ gruntle;He by his shouther gae a keek,An’ tumbled wi’ a wintleOut-owre that night.

He roar’d a horrid murder-shout,In dreadfu’ desperation!An’ young an’ auld come rinnin out,An’ hear the sad narration:He swoor ’twas hilchin Jean M’Craw,Or crouchie Merran Humphie—Till stop! she trotted thro’ them a’;And wha was it but grumphieAsteer that night!

Meg fain wad to the barn gaen,To winn three wechts o’ naething;But for to meet the deil her lane,She pat but little faith in:

She gies the herd a pickle nits,An’ twa red cheekit apples,To watch, while for the barn she sets,In hopes to see Tam KipplesThat vera night.

She turns the key wi’ cannie thraw,An’owre the threshold ventures;But first on Sawnie gies a ca’,Syne baudly in she enters:A ratton rattl’d up the wa’,An’ she cry’d Lord preserve her!An’ ran thro’ midden-hole an’ a’,An’ pray’d wi’ zeal and fervour,Fu’ fast that night.

They hoy’t out Will, wi’ sair advice;They hecht him some fine braw ane;It chanc’d the stack he faddom’t thriceWas timmer-propt for thrawin:He taks a swirlie auld moss-oakFor some black, grousome carlin;An’ loot a winze, an’ drew a stroke,Till skin in blypes cam haurlinAff’s nieves that night.

A wanton widow Leezie was,As cantie as a kittlen;But och! that night, amang the shaws,She gat a fearfu’ settlin!She thro’ the whins, an’ by the cairn,An’ owre the hill gaed scrievin;Whare three lairds’ lan’s met at a burn,To dip her left sark-sleeve in,Was bent that night.

Whiles owre a linn the burnie plays,As thro’ the glen it wimpl’t;Whiles round a rocky scar it strays,Whiles in a wiel it dimpl’t;Whiles glitter’d to the nightly rays,Wi’ bickerin’, dancin’ dazzle;Whiles cookit undeneath the braes,Below the spreading hazelUnseen that night.

Amang the brachens, on the brae,Between her an’ the moon,The deil, or else an outler quey,Gat up an’ ga’e a croon:Poor Leezie’s heart maist lap the hool;Near lav’rock-height she jumpit,But mist a fit, an’ in the poolOut-owre the lugs she plumpit,Wi’ a plunge that night.

In order, on the clean hearth-stane,The luggies three are ranged;An’ ev’ry time great care is ta’enTo see them duly changed:Auld uncle John, wha wedlock’s joysSin’ Mar’s-year did desire,Because he gat the toom dish thrice,He heav’d them on the fireIn wrath that night.

Wi’ merry sangs, an’ friendly cracks,I wat they did na weary;And unco tales, an’ funnie jokes—Their sports were cheap an’ cheery:Till butter’d sowens, wi’ fragrant lunt,

Set a’ their gabs a-steerin;Syne, wi’ a social glass o’ strunt,They parted aff careerinFu’ blythe that night.

Wee, sleekit, cow’rin, tim’rous beastie,O, what a panic’s in thy breastie!Thou need na start awa sae hasty,Wi’ bickering brattle!I wad be laith to rin an’ chase thee,Wi’ murd’ring pattle!

I’m truly sorry man’s dominion,Has broken nature’s social union,An’ justifies that ill opinion,Which makes thee startleAt me, thy poor, earth-born companion,An’ fellow-mortal!

I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve;What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!A daimen icker in a thrave’S a sma’ request;I’ll get a blessin wi’ the lave,An’ never miss’t!

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!It’s silly wa’s the win’s are strewin!An’ naething, now, to big a new ane,O’ foggage green!An’ bleak December’s winds ensuin,Baith snell an’ keen!

Thou saw the fields laid bare an’ waste,An’ weary winter comin fast,An’ cozie here, beneath the blast,Thou thought to dwell—Till crash! the cruel coulter pastOut thro’ thy cell.

That wee bit heap o’ leaves an’ stibble,Has cost thee mony a weary nibble!Now thou’s turn’d out, for a’ thy trouble,But house or hald,To thole the winter’s sleety dribble,An’ cranreuch cauld!

But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane,In proving foresight may be vain;The best-laid schemes o’ mice an ’menGang aft agley,An’lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain,For promis’d joy!

Still thou art blest, compar’d wi’ meThe present only toucheth thee:But, Och! I backward cast my e’e.On prospects drear!An’ forward, tho’ I canna see,I guess an’ fear!