Page:The poetical works of Robert Burns.djvu/66
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THE POEMS OF BURNS.
The Clachan yill had made me canty,I wasna fou, but just had plenty;I stacher'd whyles, but yet took tent ayTo free the ditches; An' hillocks, stanes, an' bushes, kenn'd ayFrae' ghaists an' witches.
The rising moon began to glowr The distant Cumnock hills out-owre: To count her horns, wi' a' my pow'r,I set mysel; But whether she had three or four,I cou'd na tell.
I was come round about the hill, And todlin down on Willie's mill, Setting my staff, wi' a' my skill,To keep me sicker; Tho' leeward whyles, against my will,I took a bicker.
I there wi' Something did forgather,That pat me in an eerie swither;An awfu' scythe, out-owre ae shouther,Clear-dangling, hang: A three-taed leister on the itherLay, large an' lang.
Its stature seem'd lang Scotch ells twa, The queerest shape that e'er I saw, For fient a wame it had ava,And then its shanks, They were as thin, as sharp an' sma'As cheeks o' branks.
'Guid-e'en,' quo' I; 'Friend! hae ye been mawin, When ither folk are busy sawin?' It seem'd to mak a kind o' stan',But naething spak; At length, says I, 'Friend, whare ye gaun,Will ye go back?'
It spak right howe—'My name is Death, But be na fley'd.'—Quoth I, 'Guid faith, Ye're maybe come to stap my breath;But tent me, billie: I red ye weel, tak care o' skaith,See, there's a gully!'
'Gudeman,' quo' he, 'put up your whittle, I'm no design'd to try its mettle;