Aul’ grannie sat carding her woo by the fire On a caul winter eve; and, as midnicht drew nigher, The bairns gathered roun’ her and quitted their glee To list to a tale: mony aul’ tales had she O’ brownies, an’ spunkies, and wee merry men, That dance in green jackets a’ nicht in the glen, O’ ghosts an’ wild spectres, in aul’ castles grey, That haud their wild revelries till break o’ day. In a circle aroun her the wee bairnies drew, An’ eerie they leuked at the fire burning blue, Nae whispering was heard when aul’ grannie began Tae tell o’ “Tam Giffen,” the wild warlock man: Lang, lang in the warld won’d warlock Tam, Nae ane could tell frae what kintra he cam, He seemed like a stranger on earth left forlorn, And some said he ne’er in the warld was born. He wandered the kintra, east, north, south, and west, And gaed aye to ca’ on them wha used him best! Alane in some glen he at morn micht be seen, But nae ane kent whar he micht be or ’twas e’en: Pale, pale was his lank cheek, but dark lowered his brow, An’ his black e’e seemed glancing wi’ unearthly lowe, He lauched at the sorrows that made ithers weep, An’ never was he kent to slumber or sleep. In through the key hole, or doun through the lum, When the doors were a’ barred, he at midnicht wad come— Or afar in some glen wi’ the bogles wad be, A’ the dead o’ the nicht, haudin’ unholy glee— Or dancing wi’ fairies far ben in the wud, Or sailing in cockle-shells far o’er the flud, Or fleeing wi’ witches awa’ through the air, Or doing dark deeds that I daurna declare. Wi’ a sly noiseless step butt the house he wud come, And set himsel’ doun by the side o’ the lum, An’ mutter dark words wi’ a strange eldrich soun’, An’ leuk as if something was steerin’ aroun’ Whilk naebody ever could see but himsel’— An’ then to the folk he wud strange stories tell O’ witches and spectres, and grim goblins near, That, flitting in corners, to him did appear. When a tempest was brewing afar in the sky, There aye was a wildness in Tam Giffen’s eye, An’ awa’ out o’ sicht he wad soon disappear, Crying wark’s to be dune and I daurna bide here; An’ aften wad gude folk in terror declare He rade in the black storm on high in the air, Leading whirlwinds onward o’er valley an’ hill, Working mischief an’ ruin to gude and to ill.