Part 5

Let’s feeace, Martha, feeace it, Whativer cūms behint! God niver sends a mowth wi’owt A sūm’at ut put in’t. We s’, happen, hev a mowth or two Ut feed besides owr ā’n, What matter—they s’ be welcome o’ Ut share whativer’s gā’n!

We s’ ol’a’s hing togidder weel, An’ beeath du what we can— A borden ’s leeter shared by two, Nor when it’s borne by yan. But if we’s plagued wi’ trūbble, (An’ whā’s fray trūbble free?) I’ s’ try ut lig thy share tull mine, An’ kep it oa’ fray thee.

An’ if we’s pooer, we s’ sham’ nin, For rich fooak’s no’but fooak; An’ whā can tell, we s’ happen drā Sūm’ prize fray fortun’s pooak. But wrowte-for punds gā’s farder far Nor hundreds ’s gi’en or fūnd; An’ sūm’ may be to t’ fooer for t’ barnes When we gā ūnder t’ grūnd.

Cūm let’s hev neā meear māp’ment, But gradely feeace owr chance; I ’s off ut put owr exin’s in, An’ git it deeun at yance. Cūm! gi’ ’s a kiss o’ t’ heead on ’t, An’ meeak na meear ut du; My hand ’s here, wi’ my heart in ’t, Tak’ them beeath—thou s’ niver rue!

OXENFELL DOBBY.

_A Reminiscence of Langdale._

Accompanied by the holder of a small farm in the dales, I was once riding up Yewdale sometime beyond the middle of a winter night. The fields on our right and the slopes and ledges of the screes and fells to the left and in front were shrouded in a vestment of frozen snow, which glared under the starlight with a brilliancy of reflection that rendered the absence of the moon unnoticed and uncared for. But the scattered groves and coppices to the eastern side, and the perpendicular craggs elsewhere, on neither of which the snow could rest as it fell, stood out black and dismal—blotches sable on a field argent—(queer heraldry this, but fair description) —with an intensity of gloom, a weird dreariness of aspect, which may hardly be realized by those who have looked upon Yewdale only when arrayed in the light verdure of spring, the matured leafiness of summer, or the marvellous variegation of autumn, under any one of which conditions that fair vale may fairly claim pre-eminence in beauty over all other minor dales of the Lake country.

On the occasion I tell of, the solemn desolation of the scenery, and the oppressive silence, broken only by the quick tramp of our ponies’ feet on the crisp snow, combined to discourage all thought of conversation or remark; and we traversed the whole length of the vale without the interchange of sentence or word. When, however, we had reached the point where the road to Tilberthwaite and Langdale Head diverges from that to Skelwith, and I was about to follow the latter, my companion laid his hand upon my rein, and said, in a rather peremptory tone, “We s’ teeak t’ tudder rooad, if yee pleease;” and on my objecting to quit the smoother and shorter road for the longer and rougher, he persisted—“It may bee as yee say, beeath t’ better an’ t’ bainer, bit nowte wad hire me to teeak t’ rooad ooer Oxenfell at this hour o’ t’ neet, an’ that’s o’ about it.” “But why?” I remonstrated, disinclined to yield in a matter of such importance to reasoning like this. “I s’ tell yee why,” he replied, “when we’s seeaf at my awn fireside, if ye sud ha’e time ut lissen.” “Is it a story?” I asked with some interest. “It’s nowte mitch of a stooary,” said he, “bit what ther’s on’t ’s true, an’ that’s meear ner can be said for many a better stooary. Bit cūm on, an’ ye s’ happen hear.” I resisted no longer, and we pursued our journey through Tilberthwaite, where the piebald dreariness of the scenery was even more marked and more depressing than in Yewdale. We reached our destination without disaster, but not without danger. The broad, deep ford in the stream, which there divides the two counties, and which we had to cross, was edged on either bank by a high, abrupt shelf of strong ice, very dangerous to slidder off and very difficult to scramble up on. Indeed, my fellow traveller, with his rough, clumsy little steed, more accustomed to the _stangs_ of muck-cart or peat sledge than to saddle work, had a roll on the farther side—luckily rolling towards the land, and not into the water. But my sagacious old “Targus,” who, as I was wont in those days to boast, could carry me over any ground on which a mountain goat or a Herdwick sheep could find a foot-hold, after testing the strength of each slippery ledge by a heavy paw or two, traversed the dangerous passage with the same steadiness with which I had known him pace over others where a slip or a stumble would have had much more serious results.

Seated comfortably at the grateless peat fire of my travelling companion, now my host, and assured of the probability of leisure to hear his story out, I reminded him of the condition under which he had induced me to take the longer and less practicable way to his fell-girt house; and after some coy deprecation, which sat awkwardly enough upon his homely features and dale nurtured manner, he began.

“Jūst about ten year syne, of jūst sec anudder neet as t’is, only t’ snā’ wasn’t frozzen, I was out efter t’ yārs.” “Poaching?” I interpolated. “Co’t as yè like,” said he, in a tone of indifference. “I was out efter t’ yārs. I’d gitten a yār or two ooer about Holme grūnd way, an’ I was meeakin’ heeam alang t’ rooad atween Hodge Clooas an’ Oxenfell, when I thowte I was gā’n ut meet sūm fellows I cud heear toakin’, bit cudn’t see. Ye knā’, t’ rooad’s o’ heets an’ hooals theear about, an’, for that reeason, I dudn’t think mitch o’ nit seein’ ’em; bit whoaiver they med be, I dudn’t want them ut see _me_. Sooa I gat ooer t’ steean fence wi’ t’ gun an’ t’ yārs, an’ croodel’t doon aback on’t ut let ’em git whyetly by. Well, they com on, an’, as I cūd hear, they wor fratchin cruelly o’ t’ way as t’ey com. Ther’ was two on ’em, plain aneeuf, for sùm’times yan spak’, an’ sùm’times anudder, an’, gaily oft, they beeath spak’ at yance. As they co’ narder till whār I was hidin, t’ fratch gat feurcer an’ louder ner iver, an’ they shoutit, t’ yan ooer t’ tudder, whedder ut shout t’ harder; bit for o’ that, I cudn’t meeak out a wūrd ’at they said. When they gat ebben fornenst me, yan o’ them let out a meeast terrable skrike, an’ I lowpt back ooer t’ wo’ ut seeav life. _Ther’ was neàbody theear!_ They wor rooarin’ an’ screeamin’ wi’in six yirds o’ mè, as I streetent mysel’ up ut lowp t’ wo’, an’ when I gat to me feet o’ t’ tudder side ther’ was nowte! An’ meear ner that, ther’ wasn’t a feeut-mark i’ t’ snā’ bit my awn, an’ they co’ t’ tudder way. How I gat heeam wi’ my gun an’ my yārs I knà’n’t, an’ I niver mun knā’—bit when I wācken’t i’ t’ mooernin’ theear was t’ gun an’ yārs atop o’ t’ teeable, an’ theear was I i’ my bed.

“An’ now I’ve telt yé t’ reeason ’at I wodn’t cū’ heeam by Oxenfell Cross. I niver hev been, ’cept i’ dayleet, on t’ rooad whār them fellows woaks, an’ I niver will, sa lang as I can git anudder ’at’s less nor a scooer o’ miles about.”

“Then is that road said to be haunted?” I enquired. “_Said_ to be hā’ntit!” he exclaimed, in a tone of wonder and contempt. “Whār ha’e yee been o’ yer life, if yé hevn’t hard o’ Oxenfell Dobby?” “Has it been seen by any one besides you?” “Ey,” replied he, “by hunderts o’ fooak! Why, bliss yé! āld Ben Grave gat seckan a torn as he was cūmin’ heeam yance leeat frae Hāks’ed fair, ’at he dūd na meear gūd. He niver wod tell what it was, bit ivery body was suer ’at it was flayin’ o’ sūm mak’, an’ a varry sairious mak’ tue, for, as I said, āld Ben niver dūd no meear gūd efter that neet—bit dwinet away an’ deet.”

“Is it known,” I asked, “how the place came to be haunted?” “Why! It _is_—partly. It’s knā’n an’ it isn’t knā’n as a body may say—bit I can tell yé o’ ’at’s knā’n about it, if yé like ut hear.” “Tell away then,” said I, “I like to hear.” “Well!” he again began, “Ya Kersmas, afooer I can mind, ther’ was a hake about Clappersgeeat, an’ ther’ was a stranger at it ’at varry few knà’t owte about—bit it seeun gat out ’at he was a new Scotch gardener ’at hed just cūm’t tull Rydal Ho’. As t’ neet went ooer fooak nooatisht ’at he was girtly teean up wi’ lile Betty Briggs—a lively, rooesy-cheek’t bit of a winch ’at com’ frae Tilberthet. Betty hed an’ āld sweetheart theear ’at they co’t Jack Slipe; bit she was sa pleeas’t wi’ t’ new an’ ’at she wodn’t hev owte ut say tull Jack. It was plain aneeuf tull o’ theear ’at he dudn’t hoaf like’t; an when t’ Scotchman kiss’t Betty i’ t’ cushion dance, t’ fooak aside o’ Jack cūd hear his teeth crack as he grūnd ’em togidder.

“When t’ dance brak’ ūp t’ gardener wod see Betty heeam, an’ as Betty bed nowte ut say ageean it, they set off togidder up t’ rooad alang t’ Brathay—an’ Jack Slipe follow’t by his-sel’ a gay bit behint ’em.

“T’ Scotch gardener niver co’ back tull Rydal Ho’. He was niver seen ageean wi’ neàbody. He partit wi’ Betty at her fadder duer i’ Tilberthet—she said—an’ that was t’ last on him!” “And was nothing ever heard of him?” I enquired. “Why! nowte ’at was owte. Theear was a hoaf silly lass about Chapel-Steel ’at said she’d hed t’ Scotchman’ heead iv her brat ya meeunleet neet—bit when she was teean up an’ quees’t about it, they cūd meeak nowte out on her, an’ they let her lowce. It _was_ said ’at Jooahn Tūrner, ’at hed t’ Oxenfell farm afooar Grave fooak, fund t’ beeans of a Christian yance when he was cūttin’ a drain iv his pastur’, bit it was niver leuk’t intull, an’ Jooahn said lile about it.”

“And what about Jack Slipe?” “Well! queerly aneeuf, he weddit t’ lass ’at dūd o’ t’ mischief, ān’ dee’t afooar he was an āld man, leeavin’ Betty wi’ a yūng family. He was niver knà’n ut smile or teeak part iv any spooart. He ol’a’s hed a wild scār’tly leeuk: as he woak’t alang a rooad he keept glimin’ fūrst ooer t’ ya shou’der an’ than ooer t’ tudder, an’ he niver durst bide by his-sel’ efter t’ darkenin’. He leev’t sarvant for a while wi’ āld Jooasep Tyson of Yakrow, an’ wheniver āld Joo’ep seed any o’ them signs of a bad conscience, he wod say, ‘Cūm! Dyne the’, Jack, thou med as gūd confess. Thou knā’s thou dud it!’ Bit whedder Jack dud it or nit neàbody can tell for suer. An’ that’s t’ way it mun rist!”

MEENIE BELL.

Wull ye meet me, Meenie Bell? Wull ye tryste yince mair wi’ me? Where the sauchs half hide the burnie as it wimples on its way? When the sinking sun comes glentin’ through the feathery birken tree, Till ye’d trow a thousand fairy fires wer’ flichterin’ on the brae.

Wull ye meet me, Meenie Bell? Wull ye say ye’ll meet me there? An’ come afore the gloamin’ fa’s to hear what I’ve to tell? For I’m gaun away the morn, an’ I’ll weary lang an’ sair ’Or I see ye’re bonnie face again—sae meet me, Meenie Bell!

I’ll be far away frae Middlebie for monie an’ monie a day; An’ I want ae curl o’ gowden hair to treasure evermore. I’ve a keepsake braw for you, an’ I’ve something mair to say— Aye! a hantle mair to tell ye than I’ve ever tell’t afore.

Thus I fleech’t wee Meenie Bell till her heart grew soft and kin’ An’ she met me near the burnie as the simmer gloamin fell; We pairtit or ’twas day, an’ o’ a’ the nichts I min’ The brichtest in my mem’ry is that nicht wi’ Meenie Bell.

I thocht her heart was troth-fast, but my image faded oot, An’ a stranger took the place in’t that she said she’d keep for me; For time gaed creeping on, an’ her hopes changed into doobt An’ doobt to caul’ mistrustin’, while I toilt ayont the sea.

I’ve warselt wi’ the worl’ weel—I’ve run a wunnin’ race, But, aih! I’m of’en wushin’ when I maunder by mysel’, An’ a’ my weary strivin’s through lang lanesome years I trace, I had bidden puir i’ Middlebie and mairiet Meenie Bell.

“A LOCKERBYE LYCKE.”[11]

(MODERN ANTIQUE.)

Ye’ve aiblins heard o’ Wullye Smyth, Ane hosteler wychte was he; Quha wonn’t at the sygne o’ the bonnie Black Bull, I’ the toon o’ Lockerbye.

For Wullye, he drawyt the best o’ wyne, An’ brewyt the best o’ yelle, An’ mixyt the best o’ brandye punch, As neebour Lairds coulde telle.

For aft the neebour Lairds conveent At Wullye’s to drynke theyre wyne, An’ hech! quhan they yokyt the brandye punch, They raysyt ane unco schyne.

An’ ance, on the nychte o’ a huntan’ tryste, A blythesome companye There lychtyt doon i’ the Black Bull closse, Wychte Wullye’s wyne to pree.

An’ there war Johnstones an’ Jardines routh Amang that rattlan’ crewe, Wi’ Herbert Herryes o’ fayre Ha’ Dykes,[12] An’ his buirdlye byllye Hughe;

An’ gallaunte Wullye o’ Becks was there, Wi’ Wullye o’ Kyrtletoone:[13] Sae they byrl’t awaye at the reid, reid wyne, As the toasts gaed roun’ an’ roun’.

Whyle up an’ spak wylde Wullye o’ Becks, An’ there fusionless toasts he curst, “We’ll toom a glasse tylle ilk man’s lasse, An’ Ha’ Dykes maun name his first!”

Than up gatte the Laird o’ bonnie Ha’ Dykes— “Weel! rayther nor marre fayre myrthe, Here’s wynsome Jean o’ the Wylye Hole, The flower o’ Tundergayrthe;

“An’ he quha wunna drynke fayre to thatte Maun quytte thysse companye; An’ he quha lychtlyes thatte sweet lasse, Maun answer it weel tylle me.”

Than up spak’ Wullye o’ Kyrtletoone, (A sleekye deevil I trowe,) “Folke say, up the Water o’ Mylke, that she lykes Ye’re byllye farre better nor yowe!”

The reid marke brunt on the Herryes his bree, An’ wow but he lookyt grymme: “Can ye thynke that the flower o’ the Mylke suld bloom For a beggarlye loon lyke hymme?

“Can ye thynke that ane haughtye dame lyke her Coulde looke wi’ a kyndlye e’e On ane quha for everye placke that he spens, Or wastes, maun sorn on me?”

“An’ div ye thynke,” cryet the wrathfu’ Hughe, “It’s noo my turne to speer— That ever a leal heartyt lassie could lo’e A sumph for the sake o’ his gear?

“An’ div ye thynke”—mayre scornfu’ wordes Younge Hughe essayet to speake, But his brither’s rychte han’ rase high in wrathe, An’ fell on his lowan’ cheeke.

Than doon at that wanbritherly strayke Dyd Hughe the Herryes fa’, An’ for to redde this fearsome fraye, Uppe lappe the gentles a’:

An’ auld Wullye Smyth cam toytlan’ benne— “Quhat’s wrang amang ye noo? It’s a wonnerfu’ thynge that ’sponsible menne Maun fechte or they weel be fou.”

Fu’ slawlye did Hughe Herryes ryse, An’ the never a worde he sayde, But he gloom’t an’ he tore his gluve wi’ his teeth, As furthe frae the room he gaed.

He muntyt his gude grey meare i’ the closse, An’ he gallopyt aff lyke wudde. “Eh, sirs!” quo auld Wullye Smyth, “Eh, sirs! This never maun come tille gude; For quhan ever a Herryes he chows his gluve, It’s ane earnest o’ deidlye feud!”

* * * * *

That myrthsome band they tynte theyre myrthe, The gude wyne tynte its power, An’ ilke man glower’t at his neebour’s face Wi’ a glum an’ eerye glower.

The Herryes he lootyt his heid to the board, I’ sorrowe but an’ shame; The lawin’ was ca’t—ilk took tille his horse, An’ sochte his ain gate hame.

Kynde Wullye o’ Becks sayde lowne tille his frien’, We maun ryde Ha’ Dykes his way; But the Herryes owreheard, an’ shook his heid, An’ doolfu’ did he saye—

“Alane! alane! I maun dree my weirde For the deede this nychte saw dune; But O that the palsye had wuther’t my han’, Or it strooke my fayther’s sonne!”

* * * * *

Atweest Ha’ Dykes an’ the Water o’ Mylke Rosebanke lies half-waye doone, An’ Chayrlye Herryes laye there that nychte, An’ he was sleepyn’ soune.

Quhyle he was rousyt i’ the howe o’ the nychte Wi’ a dynne at his wundow board, For his youngest bryther was dunneran there Wi’ the hylte o’ a sheenless sworde.

Sayan’, “Chayrlye, I’ve mayde ye a Laird the nychte, An’ I maunna be here the morne, My blade is barken’t wi’ Herbert’s blude, An’ he lyes at Hurkelle Burne.”

He muntyt his meare i’ the fayre muinlychte, An’ he pryckyt out owre the greene, But never agayne in Annandale Was blythe Hughe Herryes seene.

Na! never agayne i’ Dry’s’al’ Kyrke, Norre ever atte Lockerbye fayre, The lasses quha lo’ed the blynke o’ his e’e, Saw that blythe e’e-blynke mayre.

There was some folke sayde that his wynsome corse I’ the fathomless sea was sunke; Some sayde he was slayne i’ the German wars— An’ some that he deet a monke.

* * * * *

Quhanne Chayrlye Herryes had ca’t his menne, I’ dool but an’ i’ frychte; He boun’t him awaye to Hurkelle Burne, An’ saw ane awfu’ sychte.

For there the chief o’ his aunciente house I’ waesome plychte did lye, Wi’ his heid on the banke, his feet i’ the burne, An’ his face to the sternye skye.

Ane hastye batte wrochte unco chaynge; Younge Chayrlye noo was Lairde, An’ Herbert layde i’ the Herryeses aysle, I’ Dry’s’al’ auld Kirk-yayrde.

But fearfu’ sychtes hae beene seene sinsyne, An’ monye a late-gaune wychte Quhan stayveran’ hame by Hurkelle Burne, Hes gotten a lyfe-lang frychte.

A voyce ilke year as that nychte comes roun’, Yells a’ the plantyns throo— “_There never was Herryes that dreet a strayke, But he garr’t the smyter rue_.”

An’ what has been seen I downa telle, But this I ken fu’ weel That rayther nor cross that burne at e’en, There’s monye wad face the deil.

An’ ance quhan I was a smayke at the schule, I was late on Lockerbye Hylle, An’ sure o’ a flyte quhan I ance wan hame, I gaed wi’ lyttle gude wylle;

But thynkinge on monye a fayre excuse, Juste aung-er awaye to turne, I’d got a rychte feasible storye framyt, As I loupit owre Hurkelle Burn.

Quhan somethynge rase wi’ ane eldrytche skrayche, An’ a deevylyshe dynne it mayde, As doon the burn whyrre! whyrre! whyrroo! Lyke a flaughte o’ fyre it gaede.

My hayre lyftit up my cap frae my heide, Cauld sweite ran owre my bree, The strengthe was reft frae my trummelan’ lymbs, An’ I cower’t upo’ my knee. ’Twas ane horryble thochte to forgayther wi’ ghaysts, Quhan I’d just been coynan’ a lee.

But awaye belyve like a troute frae a gedde, Or a maukyn frae yammeran’ tykes, I fledde nor styntyt to breathe or looke backe, Quhyle I wan to the bonnie Ha’ Dykes.

My tale was tauld. They leuche, an’ quo’ they, “A frychtyt pheasaunte spryngs Wi’ a skraich an’ a whyrre;”—but I threepyt them doone, That I kenn’t it was nae sic thyngs, For quhatte could pit me i’ sic mortal dreide That flees upo’ mortal wyngs?

The gyrse growes greene about bonnie Ha’ Dykes, On meadowe, brae an’ lea; The corn waves wyde on its weel wrochte rygges, An’ its wuddes are fayre to see.

Its auld Ha’ house ’mang the chestnut trees In statelye beautye stan’s; But I wadna gaen backe by the burne that nychte For Ha’ Dykes an’ a’ its lan’s.

FOOTNOTES:

[11] This phrase is generally applied to a heavy back-handed blow. It is said to have originated at the battle of Dryfe-sands, which was fought near to Lockerbie in 1593, between the Nithsdale and the Annandale clans, the former being defeated with terrible slaughter. It was found after the battle that many of the slain had been killed by a slashing sword cut across the face, from a blow peculiar to the Johnstones, and hence called the “Lockerbye lycke.”

[12] Halldykes, in the parish of Dryfesdale, Dumfriesshire, where the writer passed some years of his boyhood, was formerly the seat of a branch of the Herries family; and, with three or four adjacent farms, formed almost the last remnant of their large border estates held by the descendants of that anciently powerful and noble house; one member of which is immortalized as the builder of the Tower of Repentance, and another as Queen Mary’s “loyal and brave Lord Herries!” Sir Robert Herries, founder of the great London banking house of Herries, Farquhar, and Co., and the Right Hon. J. C. Herries, once Chancellor of the Exchequer, were both scions of the old stock of Halldykes. Like most old family seats in the same district, Halldykes possesses, numerically speaking, a highly respectable corps of bogles (as the writer knew to his great and frequent tribulation); the origin and mode of developement of one of the most prominent of which is related pretty faithfully, according to local tradition, in the preceding rhyme.

[13] Friends of the author introduced anachronically, as also is Wullie Smyth, who flourished at Lockerbie during the author’s “school-day time.”

“THE FARMERS’ WIVES O’ ANNANDALE.”

Being shown, at Lockerbie, a printed programme of after-dinner proceedings at the celebration there of Mr. R. Jardine’s marriage, the writer noticed in the list the sentence that heads this page, and enquired if it were a toast or a song. When told it was the former, he said it deserved to be a song; and, acting on his own hint, crooned out the following verses on his homeward journey by rail.

The farmers’ wives o’ Annandale! Gude haud them bein an’ braw; Ilk rules within her foothy hame, Like leddy in her ha’. Ilk yearns to guide her ain gudeman Wi’ love that downa fail;— They irr the wale o’ woman-kind— The wives o’ Annandale!

The farmers’ wives o’ Annandale! I’ve kent their gates fu’ lang; They’re worthy weel the wine cup’s grace— Weel worthy o’ a sang. But ne’er to read their worth aricht, May toast or sang avail; They far transcend a’ rhymin’ skill— The wives o’ Annandale!

The farmers’ wives o’ Annandale Shew fine at kirk an’ fair; But see them at their ain firesides— They shine the brichtest there. Wi’ gracious smiles an’ winsome words The stranger guest they hail;— They’re angels in a hamely sphere— The wives o’ Annandale!

The farmers’ wives o’ Annandale! They strive frae morn till nicht, Without, within, through but an’ ben, To hand a’ rowin’ richt; To keep contentit their gudemen, Their bairnies feal an’ hale, Till baith rise up an’ ca’ them blest— The wives o’ Annandale.

The chiel’ that hes in Annandale A weel-waled farm an’ wife, Has drawn twae glorious prizes frae The lucky-bag o’ life. An’ may they prosper, stock an’ store, In ever hichtinin’ scale, Whae treasure in their hames an’ hearts The wives o’ Annandale.

A REMINISCENCE OF CORRIE.

Of a’ the streams o’ Annandale Wi’ names embalm’t i’ sang or story, Gin Mylke, for beauty, beer the bell, I think I’d gi’e the mell to Corrie.

It’s “up by Corrie—doon by Dryfe,” (Gin a coortin’ ye wad toddle) “That’s the gate to seek a wife”— (Hoo daft aul’ rhymes bide in yin’s noddle!)

But sud ye take ye’re way by Corrie, Till ye come gey near to Borelan’, Ye’ll aye see muir an’ bent afore ye— Scarce ochte a’ roon’ but bent an’ muirlan’.

“There’s Corrie Lea an’ Corrie Law— Corrie Mains—an’ mowdies hork” there— “Corrie Hill an’ Corrie Ha’— Corrie Common, Corrie Kirk” there.

But Corrie Kirk’s nae kirk ava— Corrie Hill’s nae hill to roam on— Snell’s the blast on Corrie Law— Scant the gerse on Corrie Common.

They tell me Corrie’s alter’t now; It’s drain’t, they say, an’ fenced an’ plantit; But as I min’ ’t, lang syne, I trow, Drain, fence, an’ biel war sairly wantit.

Than what is’t gars me ply my pen I’ scribblin’ doon this rhymin’ clatter? An’ what is’t mak’s me aye sae fain To hear or read o’ Corrie water?