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ePaper created 2014-04-08, 18:05:31 | version 1.29.01
79 They’d maist ha’e died of awe! The wife’s black locks e’er morn grew white, The say, as the mountain snaws, The man was as straight as a staff that night, But he stooped when the morning rose. Still, year an’ day, as the clock struck nine, The hour when they did the sin, The wee bit dog began to whine, An the gaist came clatterin’ in. Ae night there was a fearfu’ flood- Three days the skies had pour’d; And white wi’foam, an’ black wi’mud The burn in fury roar’d. Quo’ she, ‘Gude man, an’ it’s o’er the linn, And it’s up to the meadow ridge-’ ‘Aye’ quo’ the Stumpie, hirplin’ in. And he gie’d the wife a slap on the chin, ‘But I cam’ roun’ by the bridge’. And stump, stump, stump to his plays again, And o’er the stools and chairs; Ye’d surely hae thought ten women an’ men, Were dancing there in pairs. They sold their gear, and o’er the sea, To a foreign land they went, O’er the sea-but wha can flee, His appointed punishment? The ship swam o’er the water clear,