An' the haill apotheck lay in spails,
As the grey mear warsled free;
An' when auld Jock Smairt saw the fashion o' his cairt:
"Wha's seekin' ony spunks?" says he.
THE NICHT THAT THE BAIRNIE CAM' HAME.
I was gaun to my supper richt hungert an' tired,
A' day I'd been hard at the pleugh;
The snaw wi' the dark'nin' was fast dingin' on,
An' the win' had a coorse kin' o' sough.
'Twas a cheery like sicht as the bonny fire-licht
Gar't the winnock play flicker wi' flame;
But my supper was "Aff for the doctor at aince!"
That nicht that the bairnie cam' hame.
Noo, I kent there was somethin' o' that sort to be,
An' I'd had my ain thochts, tae, aboot it;
Sae when my gude-mither had tel't me to flee,
Fegs, it wisna my pairt for to doot it.
Wi' a new pair o' buits that was pinchin' like sin,
In a mile I was hirplin' deid lame;
'Twas the warst nicht o' a' that I ever pit in,
That nicht that the bairnie cam' hame.
I'd a gude seeven mile o' a fecht wi' the snaw,
An the road was near smoort oot wi' drift;
While the maister at market had got on the ba',
Sae I'd tint my ae chance o' a lift.
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