There fell a battle far in the north; The evil news gaed back and forth, And back and forth by brae and bent Hider and hunter cam and went: The hunter clattered horse-shoe-airn By causey-crest and hill-top cairn; The hider, in by shag and shench, Crept on his wame and little lench. The eastland wind blew shrill and snell, The stars arose, the gloaming fell, The firelight shone in window and door When Mr. Frank cam here to shore. He hirpled up by the links and the lane, And chappit laigh in the back-door-stane. My faither gaed, and up wi’ his han’! . . . Is this Mr. Frank, or a beggarman? I have mistrysted sair, he said, But let me into fire and bed; Let me in, for auld lang syne, And give me a dram of the brandy wine. They hid him in the Bour-Tree Den, And I thought it strange to gang my lane; I thought it strange, I thought it sweet, To gang there on my naked feet. In the mirk night, when the boats were at sea, I passed the burn abune the knee; In the mirk night, when the folks were asleep, I had a tryst in the den to keep. Late and air’, when the folks were asleep, I had a tryst, a tryst to keep, I had a lad that lippened to me, And bour-tree blossom is fair to see! O’ the bour-tree leaves I busked his bed, The mune was siller, the dawn was red: Was nae man there but him and me— And bour-tree blossom is fair to see! Unco weather hae we been through: The mune glowered, and the wind blew, And the rain it rained on him and me, And bour-tree blossom is fair to see! Dwelling his lane but house or hauld, Aft he was wet and aft was cauld; I warmed him wi’ my briest and knee— And bour-tree blossom is fair to see! There was nae voice of beast ae man, But the tree soughed and the burn ran, And we heard the ae voice of the sea: Bour-tree blossom is fair to see! SONNETS I. NOR judge me light, tho’ light at times I seem, And lightly in the stress of fortune bear The innumerable flaws of changeful care— Nor judge me light for this, nor rashly deem (Office forbid to mortals, kept supreme And separate the prerogative of God!) That seaman idle who is borne abroad To the far haven by the favouring stream. Not he alone that to contrarious seas Opposes, all night long, the unwearied oar, Not he alone, by high success endeared, Shall reach the Port; but, winged, with some light breeze Shall they, with upright keels, pass in before Whom easy Taste, the golden pilot, steered. II.