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n to tell, Which lately on a night befel, Is just as true's the Deil's in h--ll Or Dublin-city; That e'er he nearer comes oursel 'S a muckle pity. The Clachan yill had made me canty, I was na fou, but just had plenty; I stacher'd whyles, but yet took tent ay To free the ditches; An' hillocks, stanes, and bushes, kenn'd ay Frae ghaists an' witches. The rising moon began to glow'r The distant Cumnock hills out-owre: To count her horns with a' my pow'r, I set mysel; But whether she had three or four, I could na tell. I was come round about the hill, And todlin down on Willie's mill, Setting my staff with a' my skill, To keep me sicker; Tho' leeward whyles, against my will, I took a bicker. I there wi' something did forgather, That put me in an eerie swither; An awfu' scythe, out-owre ae shouther, Clear-dangling, hang; A three-taed leister on the ither Lay, large an' lang. Its stature seem'd lang Scotch ells twa, The queerest shape that e'er I saw, For fient a wame it had ava: And then, its shanks, They were as thin, as sharp an' sma' As cheeks o' branks. "Guid-een," quo' I; "Friend, hae ye been mawin, When ither folk are busy sawin?" It seem'd to mak a kind o' stan', But naething spak; At length, says I, "Friend, where ye gaun, Will ye go back?" It spak right howe,--"My name is Death, But be na fley'd."--Quoth I, "Guid faith, Ye're may be come to stap my breath; But tent me, billie; I red ye weel, take care o' skaith, See, there's a gully!" "Guidman," quo' he, "put up your whittle, I'm no design'd to try its mettle; But if I did, I wad be kittle To be mislear'd, I wad nae mind it, no that spittle Out-owre my beard." "Weel, weel!" says I, "a bargain be't; Come, gies your hand, an' sae we're gree't; We'll ease our shanks an' tak a seat, Come, gies your news! This while ye hae been mony
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