A snug thack-house, before the door a green; Hens on the midding, ducks in dubs are seen. On this side stands a barn, on that a byre; A peat-stack joins, and forms a rural square. The house is Gland's;--there you may see him lean, And to his divot-seat invite his frien'. GLAUD _and_ SYMON. _Glaud._ Good-morrow, nibour Symon,--come sit down, And gie's your cracks.--What's a' the news in town? They tell me ye was in the ither day, And sald your Crummock and her bassend quey. I'll warrant ye've coft a pund of cut and dry; Lug out your box, and gie's a pipe to try. _Sym._ With a' my heart;--and tent me now, auld boy, I've gather'd news will kittle your mind with joy. I cou'dna rest till I came o'er the burn, To tell ye things have taken sic a turn, Will gar our vile oppressors stend like flaes, And skulk in hidlings on the hether braes. _Glaud._.Fy, blaw! Ah! Symie, ratling chiels ne'er stand To cleck and spread the grossest lies aff hand, Whilk soon flies round like will-fire far and near: But loose your poke, be't true or fause, let's hear. _Sym._ Seeing's believing, Glaud, and I have seen Hab, that abroad has with our Master been; Our brave good Master, wha right wisely fled, And left a fair estate, to save his head: Because ye ken fou well he bravely chose To stand his liege's friend with great Montrose. Now Cromwell's gane to Nick; and ane ca'd Monk Has play'd the Rumple a right slee begunk, Restor'd King Charles, and ilka thing's in tune: And Habby says, we'll see Sir William soon. _Glaud._ That makes me blyth indeed;--but dinna flaw: Tell o'er your news again! and swear till't a'; And saw ye Hab! and what did Halbert say? They have been e'en a dreary time away. Now God be thanked that our laird's come hame; And his estate, say, can he eithly claim? _Sym._ They that hag-raid us till our guts did grane, } Like greedy bairs, dare nae mair do't again; } And good Sir William sall enjoy his ain. } SANG VII.--_Tune_, Cauld kail in Aberdeen. _Cauld be the rebels cast, Oppressors base and bloody, I hope we'll see them at the last Strung a' up in a woody. Blest be he of worth and sense, And ever high his station, That bravely stands in the defence Of conscience, king and nation._ _Glaud._ And may he lang; for never did he stent Us in our thriving, with a racket rent: Nor grumbl'd, if ane grew rich; or shor'd to raise Our mailens, when we pat on Sunday's claiths. _Sym._ Nor wad he lang, with senseless saucy air, Allow our lyart noddles to be bare. "Put on your bonnet, Symon;--tak a seat.-- How's all at hame?--How's Elspa? How does Kate? How sells black cattle?--What gi'es woo this year?" And sic like kindly questions wad he speer. SANG VIII.--_Tune_, Mucking of Geordy's byar.