24
Thrummy him thanked, and syne his
Intil a muckle purse he stowed,
An' cramed it in his oxter pouch,
And syne sought out his aiken crutch:
Said, Fare-ye-weel, I maun awa,
An' see gin I get through the snaw.
Weel, fare-ye-weel, replied the Laird:
How comes it that ye ha' na shared,
Or gi'en your nei'bour o' the money?
Na, by my saul, I sir, quo' Thrummy,
When I the siller, sir, did win,
To had done this wad been a sin,
For he cower'd, trembling in the bed,
While I it was the Ghaist had laid.
And sae my tale I here do end,
I hope no one it will offend;
My muse will no' assist me langer,
The dorty jade sometimes docs lang'er.
I thought her ance a gay smart lass,
But now she's come to sic a pass,
That a' my cudgelling and weeping,
Will hardly wake her out o' sleeping:
To plague her mair I winna try,
But dight my pen and lay it bye.
FINIS.
