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ePaper created 2014-04-08, 18:05:31 | version 1.29.01
78 Wi’ legs in a pickle hay; Over the burn in the sweet moonlight, They carried him till this brae. They shovell’d a hole right speedily, They laid him on his back- ‘A right pair are ye’, quo’ the PEDLAR, quo’ he, Sitting bolt upright in the pack. ‘Ye think ye’ve laid me snugly here, An’ none shall know my station. But I’ll haunt ye far, an’ I’ll haunt ye near, Father an’ son, wi’ terror an’ fear Til the nineteenth generation’. The twa were sittin’ the verra next night, When the dog began to cower. And they by the pale blue fire light, That the Evil One had power. It had stricken nine, jist nine o’the clock, The hour when the man lay dead; There came to the outer door a knock, And a heavy, heavy tread. The old man’s head swam round an’ round, The woman’s blood ’gan freeze, For it was not a natural sound, But like some ane stumpin’ o’er the ground An the banes o’ his twa bare knees. And through the door like a sough of air, And stump, stump, round the twa. Wi’ his bloody head, and his knee banes bare