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ePaper created 2014-04-08, 18:05:31 | version 1.29.01
80 Wi’ the help o’ the eastern breeze, But the verra first sound in guilty fear, O’er the wide, smooth deck, that fell on their ear, Was the tappin’ o’ them twa knees. In the woods of wild America, Their weary feet they set, But the Stumpie was there the first, they say, And he haunted them on to their dying day, And he follows their children yet. I haud ye, never the voice of blood Call’d from the earth in vain; And never has crime won worldly good, But it brought its after-pain. This is the story of Stumpie’s Brae, An’ the murderers fearfu’ fate. Young man, yer face is turned that way, Ye’ll be a gangin’ the night that gate. Ye’ll ken it weel, through the few fir trees, The house where they wont to dwell, Gin ye meet ane there, as daylight flees, Stumpin’ aboot on the banes o’ his knees It’ll jist be Stumpie himself.’