[Footnote 14: You go out, one or more (for this is a social spell), to a south running spring, or rivulet, where “three lairds’ lands meet,” and dip your left shirt sleeve. Go to bed in sight of a fire, and hang your wet sleeve before it to dry. Lie awake, and, some time near midnight, an apparition, having the exact figure of the grand object in question, will come and turn the sleeve, as if to dry the other side of it.—R.B.] Whiles owre a linn the burnie plays, As thro’ the glen it wimpl’t; Whiles round a rocky scar it strays, Whiles in a wiel it dimpl’t; Whiles glitter’d to the nightly rays, Wi’ bickerin’, dancin’ dazzle; Whiles cookit undeneath the braes, Below the spreading hazel Unseen that night. Amang the brachens, on the brae, Between her an’ the moon, The deil, or else an outler quey, Gat up an’ ga’e a croon: Poor Leezie’s heart maist lap the hool; Near lav’rock-height she jumpit, But mist a fit, an’ in the pool Out-owre the lugs she plumpit, Wi’ a plunge that night. In order, on the clean hearth-stane, The luggies^15 three are ranged; An’ ev’ry time great care is ta’en To see them duly changed: Auld uncle John, wha wedlock’s joys Sin’ Mar’s-year did desire, Because he gat the toom dish thrice, He heav’d them on the fire In wrath that night. [Footnote 15: Take three dishes, put clean water in one, foul water in another, and leave the third empty; blindfold a person and lead him to the hearth where the dishes are ranged; he (or she) dips the left hand; if by chance in the clean water, the future (husband or) wife will come to the bar of matrimony a maid; if in the foul, a widow; if in the empty dish, it foretells, with equal certainty, no marriage at all. It is repeated three times, and every time the arrangement of the dishes is altered.—R.B.] Wi’ merry sangs, an’ friendly cracks, I wat they did na weary; And unco tales, an’ funnie jokes— Their sports were cheap an’ cheery: Till butter’d sowens,^16 wi’ fragrant lunt, [Footnote 16: Sowens, with butter instead of milk to them, is always the Halloween Supper.—R.B.] Set a’ their gabs a-steerin; Syne, wi’ a social glass o’ strunt, They parted aff careerin Fu’ blythe that night. To A Mouse, On Turning Her Up In Her Nest With The Plough, November, 1785 Wee, sleekit, cow’rin, tim’rous beastie, O, what a panic’s in thy breastie! Thou need na start awa sae hasty, Wi’ bickering brattle! I wad be laith to rin an’ chase thee, Wi’ murd’ring pattle! I’m truly sorry man’s dominion, Has broken nature’s social union, An’ justifies that ill opinion, Which makes thee startle At me, thy poor, earth-born companion, An’ fellow-mortal!