Keàty Cūrbison’ cat hed a whudderin’ waow, A waow like a yowl, fit to freeten a man; An’ t’ leet iv it’ e’e was a green glentin’ lowe— Iv it’ _e’e_, we may say, for it no’but hed yan. T’ ya lūg hed been rovven an’ hung like a cloot, While t’ tudder stack ūp like t’ cockad’ iv a hat; Lang whiskers like brūssles spread o’ roond it’ snoot— It wosn’t a beauty—Keàte Cūrbison’ cat! Keàty Cūrbison’ cat was a terror to t’ toon— Till butt’ry an’ pantry it may’d hed a kay. Intil ivery hoose, ayder up t’ geàt or doon, By air-wole or chimla it wūmmelt it’ way. For thievin’ an’ reàvin’ ’twas war’ nor a fox, Ther’ wasn’t a hen-hoose it hedn’t been at; Young chickens, an’ geslins, an’ pigeons, an’ ducks Wer’ “ghem, gā ’way tul’t” to Keàte Cūrbison’ cat. Keàty Cūrbison’ cat like a tiger wad feight;— When it’ back was weel up an’ o’ ruddy for war It wad lick a cur dog mair nor ten times it’ weight, An’ mongrels an’ messans they dursn’t cū nār. It hed leet of a trap, an’ ya feùt was teàn off, An’ it’ tail bed been dock’t—but it dūdn’t mind that, It wad flee at owte whick ’at wad give it a lofe— A hero, i’ hair, was Keàte Cūrbison’ cat. Keàty Cūrbison’ cat hed of lives a lang lot— Yè ma’ toak aboot nine—it hed ninety an’ mair; It was preùf ageàn puzzen or pooder an’ shot— They hed buriet it yance, but it still dudn’t care. It was tiet iv a meal-bag an’ flung into t’ beck, But t’ bag it brong heàm for it’ mistress a brat, Limpin’, trailin’ ’t ahint it wi’ t’ string round it’ neck— T’ beck cūdn’t droon Keàty Cūrbison’ cat. Keàty Cūrbison’ cat browte oald Keàty to grief— Pooar body! she nowder was cūmly nor rich— An’ t’ neybors aboot settlet doon to t’ belief ’At her cat was a divil an’ she was a witch. An’ they said, “Let us swum her i’ t’ tarn,” an’ they dud; She swom a lāl bit, an’ than droon’t like a rat, An’ t’ cat aboot t’ spot swom as lang as it cūd; An’ finish’t at last was Keàte Cūrbison’ cat. NOTE. I remember reading somewhere the story of one of the many old women so treated, in the wisdom of our ancestors, who was drowned while undergoing the common ordeal of being bound and thrown into deep water—and her cat, supposed to be her familiar spirit, swimming in circles over the place where she sank till it became exhausted and was also drowned. A story which made a lasting impression on my young imagination. JOSEPH THOMPSON’S THUMB. AN OLD HARRINGTON STORY. Jwosep’ Thompson leev’t lang up at Harrin’ton toon,[17] An’ a weel to dee, throughly oald marrow was Joe, Wid a neive like a neàf, an’ a feàce like a moon, An’ a shap’, standin’ ūp, like a tee-tak-up-o’.