He muntyt his meare i’ the fayre muinlychte, An’ he pryckyt out owre the greene, But never agayne in Annandale Was blythe Hughe Herryes seene. Na! never agayne i’ Dry’s’al’ Kyrke, Norre ever atte Lockerbye fayre, The lasses quha lo’ed the blynke o’ his e’e, Saw that blythe e’e-blynke mayre. There was some folke sayde that his wynsome corse I’ the fathomless sea was sunke; Some sayde he was slayne i’ the German wars— An’ some that he deet a monke. * * * * * Quhanne Chayrlye Herryes had ca’t his menne, I’ dool but an’ i’ frychte; He boun’t him awaye to Hurkelle Burne, An’ saw ane awfu’ sychte. For there the chief o’ his aunciente house I’ waesome plychte did lye, Wi’ his heid on the banke, his feet i’ the burne, An’ his face to the sternye skye. Ane hastye batte wrochte unco chaynge; Younge Chayrlye noo was Lairde, An’ Herbert layde i’ the Herryeses aysle, I’ Dry’s’al’ auld Kirk-yayrde. But fearfu’ sychtes hae beene seene sinsyne, An’ monye a late-gaune wychte Quhan stayveran’ hame by Hurkelle Burne, Hes gotten a lyfe-lang frychte. A voyce ilke year as that nychte comes roun’, Yells a’ the plantyns throo— “_There never was Herryes that dreet a strayke, But he garr’t the smyter rue_.” An’ what has been seen I downa telle, But this I ken fu’ weel That rayther nor cross that burne at e’en, There’s monye wad face the deil. An’ ance quhan I was a smayke at the schule, I was late on Lockerbye Hylle, An’ sure o’ a flyte quhan I ance wan hame, I gaed wi’ lyttle gude wylle; But thynkinge on monye a fayre excuse, Juste aung-er awaye to turne, I’d got a rychte feasible storye framyt, As I loupit owre Hurkelle Burn. Quhan somethynge rase wi’ ane eldrytche skrayche, An’ a deevylyshe dynne it mayde, As doon the burn whyrre! whyrre! whyrroo! Lyke a flaughte o’ fyre it gaede. My hayre lyftit up my cap frae my heide, Cauld sweite ran owre my bree, The strengthe was reft frae my trummelan’ lymbs, An’ I cower’t upo’ my knee. ’Twas ane horryble thochte to forgayther wi’ ghaysts, Quhan I’d just been coynan’ a lee. But awaye belyve like a troute frae a gedde, Or a maukyn frae yammeran’ tykes, I fledde nor styntyt to breathe or looke backe, Quhyle I wan to the bonnie Ha’ Dykes. My tale was tauld. They leuche, an’ quo’ they, “A frychtyt pheasaunte spryngs Wi’ a skraich an’ a whyrre;”—but I threepyt them doone, That I kenn’t it was nae sic thyngs, For quhatte could pit me i’ sic mortal dreide That flees upo’ mortal wyngs? The gyrse growes greene about bonnie Ha’ Dykes, On meadowe, brae an’ lea; The corn waves wyde on its weel wrochte rygges, An’ its wuddes are fayre to see.