“I’ll shiel a’ your sheep i’ the mornin’ sune, I’ll berry your crap by the light o’ the moon, An’ ba the bairns wi’ an unkenned tune, If ye’ll keep puir Aiken-drum. “I’ll loup the linn where ye canna wade, I’ll kirn the kirn, an’ I’ll turn the bread; An’ the wildest filly that ever ran rede, I’se tame’t,” quoth Aiken-drum. “To wear the tod frae the flock on the fell, To gather the dew frae the heather-bell, An’ to look at my face i’ your clear crystal well, Might gie pleasure to Aiken-drum. “I’se seek nae guids, gear, bond, nor mark; I use nae beddin’, shoon, nor sark; But a cogfu’ o’ brose ’tween the light an’ the dark, Is the wage o’ Aiken-drum.” Quoth the wylie auld wife: “The thing speaks weel; Our workers are scant—we hae routh o’ meal; Gif he’ll do as he says—be he man, be he deil— Now! we’ll try this Aiken-drum.” But the wenches skirled: “He’s no be here! His eldritch look gars us swarf wi’ fear; An’ the feint a ane will the house come near, If they think but o’ Aiken-drum.” “Puir clipmalabors! ye hae little wit; Is’t na Hallowmas now, an’ the crap out yet?” Sae she silenced them a’ wi’ a stamp o’ her fit— “Sit yer wa’s down, Aiken-drum.” Roun’ a’ that side what wark was dune By the streamer’s gleam, or the glance o’ the moon; A word, or a wish, an’ the brownie cam sune, Sae helpfu’ was Aiken-drum.... On Blednoch banks, an’ on crystal Cree, For mony a day a toiled wight was he; While the bairns played harmless roun’ his knee, Sae social was Aiken-drum. But a new-made wife, fu’ o’ frippish freaks, Fond o’ a’ things feat for the first five weeks, Laid a mouldy pair o’ her ain man’s breeks By the brose o’ Aiken-drum. Let the learned decide when they convene What spell was him an’ the breeks between; For frae that day forth he was nae mair seen, An’ sair missed was Aiken-drum. He was heard by a herd gaun by Thrieve, Crying: “Lang, lang now may I greet an’ grieve: For, alas! I hae gotten baith fee an’ leave— Oh, luckless Aiken-drum.” Awa’, ye wrangling sceptic tribe, Wi’ your pros an’ your cons wad ye decide ’Gain the ’sponsible voice o’ a hail country-side, On the facts ’bout Aiken-drum! Though the “Brownie o’ Blednoch” lang be gane, The mark o’ his feet’s left on mony a stane; An’ mony a wife an’ mony a wean Tell the feats o’ Aiken-drum. E’en now, light loons that jibe an’ sneer At spiritual guests an’ a’ sic gear, At the Glashnoch mill hae swat wi’ fear, An’ looked roun’ for Aiken-drum. An’ guidly folks hae gotten a fright, When the moon was set, an’ the stars gied nae light, At the roaring linn, in the howe o’ the night, Wi’ sighs like Aiken-drum. WILLIAM NICHOLSON. LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI. I.