The Clachan yill had made me canty,
I wasna fou, but just had plenty ;
I stacher'd whyles, but yet took tent ay
To free the ditches;

An' hillocks, stanes, an' bushes, kenn'd ay

Frae' ghaists an' witches.

'Guid-e'en,' quo' I; 'Friend! hae ye been mawin,

When ither folk are busy sawin?'

It seem'd to mak a kind o' stan',

At length, says I, 'Friend, whare ye gaun,

But naething spak;

Will ye go back?'

'Sax thousand years are near-hand fled,
Sin' I was to the butching bred,
An' mony a scheme in vain's been laid,

To stap or scaur me; Till ane Hornbook's ta'en up the trade,

An' faith, he'll waur me.