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What ye be seeking, or what fuish you here."

The grip detain'd her, and she cud na

Her tongue for fear tint fettle in her cheek.
Then saftly more the squire entreats her


At last she gae a sob, and said, "Hegh hey! Oh, let me gang, for I hae done nae ill"— "There's nane here thinks it," says he, "but bide still;

Tell me what ails you, and I'll right your wrang,

Be what it list; and Ise no hadd you lang." "My wrang, my wrang, gryte is my wrang,"

she says;

"Gin e'er ye heard of Flaviana's Braes, Frae them am I, 'tis there my wrang is


Wrang unforsain'd,3 and that we never bought;

Rank Kettrin were they that did us the ill, They toom'd 4 our braes that swarming store did fill :

And mair than that, I reed our herds are ta'en,

And it's sair borne o' me that they are slain :

"I mind to hear of Flaviana's Braes : Fan' I was young, upo' the nourice 2 knee, My mammy used to sing a sang to me About the Braes, and Colin was the lad, And bonny Jean the name the lassie had : Well were they roos'd,3 gin a' was said be true,


And fat wad 4 I, but they belong'd to you:
Gin they were bonny, ye are sae, I see.'
The tear again came trickling frae her ee.
Scarce could she speak; at last she sobb-
ing says,

"There was a sang ca'd Flaviana's Braes;
The fouks intil't belonging were to me,
And tho' I say't, they could not sibber5 be:
But sad's the sang that we may a' sing now!
Of fouks and gear we're rich alike, I trow."
"Fear no, sweet lassie, fear no," he replies,
"'Tis nae a' hopeless that in peril lies;
Tak ye gueed heartning, and lay down
your fears,

Come to this strype 7 and wash awa your tears;

Ise mak you right enough." The kindly

To gang and wash, wi' Nory did prevail.
But O! whan he beheld her face so fair,
So sweet, so lovely, and so debonair,

For they great docker 5 made, and tulyied Gin he afore was o'er the lugs in love,


Ere they wad yield and let the cattle gang."
And a' the time the tears ran down her

And pinked o'er her chin upon her keek.
To hear her tale his heart was like to brak,
And sair intreated she wad courage tak;
That he wad gar the gueeds? come dancing

Out o'er the head he now was, and above.
Now ilka nook she fills within his heart,
And he resolves that they sall never part.


Then sat she down aneth a birken shade,
That spread aboon her, and hang o'er

her head,

Couthy and warm, and gowany the green, And them pay deep and dear, that had Had it, instead of night, the day-time been;

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All things appear'd upon the dead of night: For fear, she cower'd like maukin in the seat,

And dunt for dunt her heart began to beat; Amidst this horror, sleep began to steal, And for a wee her flightring breast to heal.

As she hauf-sleeping, and hauf-waking lay,

An unco din she hears of fouk and play. The sough they made gar'd her lift up her


Another said, Oh, gin she had but milk, Then should she gae frae heed to foot in silk,

With castings1 rare, and a gueed nouricefee,

To nurse the King of Elfin's heir, Fizzee. Syne ere she wist, like house aboon her head,

Great candles burning, and braw tables spread;

Braw dishes reeking, and just at her hand, Trig greencoats sairing, a'upon command. And, oh, the gathering that was on the To cut they fa', and she among the lave ;3 The sight was bonny, and her mou' did


Of little foukies, clad in green and blue! Kneefer 3 and trigger never trade the dew; In many a reel they scamper'd here and there,

Whiles in the yerd,4 and whiles up in the air.

The pipers play'd like ony touting horn, Sic sight she never saw since she was born. As she's behadding5 all this mirthful glee, Or e'er she wist, they're dancing in the


Aboon her head, as nimble as the bees, That swarm in search of honey round the



The mair she ate, the mair her hunger grew,

Eat what she like, and she could ne'er be fu';

The knible Elves about her ate ding-dang, Syne to the play they up, and danc'd and


Drink in braw cups was caw'd about gelore;5 Some fell asleep, and loud began to snore. Syne in a clap, the Fairies a' sat down, And fell to crack about the table round.

Ane at another speer'd, Fat tricks play'd


Fear's like to fell her, reed that they Whan in a riddle ye sail'd o'er the sea?

should fa'

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Tam got the wyte, and I gae the tehee!
I think I never saw a better sport,
But dool fell'd Tam, for sadly he paid for't.
But, quoth anither, I play'da better prank,
I gard a witch fa' headlins in a stank,1
As she was riding on a windle-strae,2
The carling gloff'd,3 and cried out, Will
awae !

Another said, I couped4 Mungo's ale, Clean heels o'er head, fan it was ripe and stale,

Just when the tapster the first chapin5 drew; Then bad her lick the pale, and aff I flew. Had ye but seen how blate the lassie looked,

Whan she was blam'd, how she the drink

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I hae keeped my house for these three- Let them seek out a lyth' in the heat of the

score o' years,

And aye I kept free o' the spinning o't; But how I was sarkèd, foul fa' them that speers,1

For it minds me upo' the beginning o't. But our women are now-a-days grown a' sae braw,2

That ilk ane maun hae a sark, an' some maun hae twa;

The warld was better, when ne'er ane ava Had a rag, but ane at the beginning o't.

Foul fa' her that ever advised me to spin, That had been sae lang o' beginning o't; I might well have ended as I did begin, Nor have gat sic a skair with the spinning o't.

But they'll say, She's a wise wife that kens her ain weird;3

I thought on a day it should never be speer'd,

How lout 4 ye the low tak your rock by the beard,

When ye yeed 5 to try the spinning o't?

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And there venture on the beginning o't. But to do as I did, alas and awow!

To busk2 up a rock at the cheek o' the low, Says, that I had but little wit in my pow, And as little ado wi' the spinning o't.

But yet, after a', there is ae thing that grieves

My heart to think o' the beginning o't; Had I won the length but of ae pair o' sleeves,

Then there had been word o'the spinning o't.

This I wad hae washen an' bleach'd like the snaw,

And on my twa gardies like moggans 3 wad draw,

And then fouk wad say, that auld Girzy was braw,

And a' was upon her ain spinning o't.

But gin I could shog 4 about till a new spring,

I should yet hae a bout 5 of the spinning o't;

A mutchkin o' lintseed I'd in the yerd fling, For a' the wanchancy beginning o't. I'll gar my ain Tammie gae down to the how,

And cut me a rock of a widdershins grow, Of good rantry-tree7 for to carry my tow,

And a spindle o' same for the twining o't.

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But gin my new rock war anes cutted and And then frae our fingers to gnidge aff1 the dry,

I'll all Maggy's cann an' her cantrips1 defy, And, but ony sussie, the spinning I'll try, An' ye shall a' hear o' the beginning o't.


Quo' Tibby, her dother, tak tent fat3 ye say, The never a rag we'll be seeking o't; Gin ye anes begin, ye'll tarveal's4 night an' day,

Sae 'tis vain ony mair to be speaking o't. Since Lammas, I'm now gain' thirty an' twa,

And never a dud sark had I yet great or sma',

And what waur am I? I'm as warm an' as braw,


With the wearisome wark o' the rubbing o't.

And syne ilka tait maun be heckled outthrow,

The lint putten ae gate, anither the tow, Syne on on a rock wi't, and it taks a low,—

The back o' my hand 3 to the spinning o't.

Quo' Jenny, I think, 'oman, ye're in the right,

Set your feet ay a spar to the spinning o't; Let's tak an example by our ain mither's fright,

That she got, when she try'd the beginning o't.

But they'll say, that auld fouk are twice bairns indeed,

As thrummy-tail'd 5 Meg, that's the And sae she has kyth'd it; 4 but there is nae spinner o't.

To labour the lint land, and then buy the seed,

And then to yoke me to the harrowing o't;


To siccan an amshach 5 that we drive our head,

As lang's we're sae skair'd frae the spinning o't.

And syne loll amon't and pick out ilka Quo' Nanny, the youngest, I've now heard weed,

Like swine in a stye at the farrowing o't; Syne powing an' ripling, and steeping, and then

To gar's gae and spread it upon the cauld plain,

And then, after a', may be labour in vain,

When the wind and the weet gets the fushion" o't.

But though it should anter7 the weather to bide,

With beetles we're set to the drubbing o't;

ye a',

An' dowie's your doom of the spinning o't.

Gin ye, when the cow flings, the cog? cast awa',

Ye'll see where ye'll lick up your winning o't;

But I see that, but spinning, I'll never be braw,

But gae by the name of a dilp9 or a daw, Sae, lack where ye like, I sall anes shak a fa',

Afore I be dung 10 wi' the spinning o't.

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