19
THE MINSTREL.
Donnocht-Head is not mine," said Burns to Thomson, who had made this inquiry of him-"I would give ten pounds it were." This beautifully-pathetic Ballad from the pen of Thomas Pickering of Newcastle, written by him in 1794.
Keen blaws the wind o'er Donnocht-Head, The snaw drives snellie through the dale, The Gaberlunzie tirls my sneck, And, shivering, tells his waefu' tale.
"Cauld is the night-o let me in, And dinna let your minstrel fa'; And dinna let his winding-sheet Be naething but a wreath o' snaw!
" Full ninety winters ha'e I seen, And piped whare gor-cocks whirring flew; And monie a day ye've danced, I ween, To lilts which from my drone I blew."
My Eppie waked, and soon she cried, " Get up, guidman, and let him in : For weel ye ken the winter night Was short when he began his din."
My Eppie's voice, wow it's sweet! Even though she bans and scolds a wee; But when it's tuned to sorrow's tale, O, haith, it's doubly dear to me!
" Come in, auld earle, I'll steer my fire, I'll mak' it bleeze a bonnie flame; Your bluid is thin, ye've tint the gate, Ye shouldna stray sac far frae hame."
“Nae hame have I," the Minstrel said, “ Sad party-strife o'erturn'd my ha's And, weeping, at the eve of life, I (illegible text) through a wreath o'shaw."
