At Martinmas, whan win's blew snell an' cauld, An' beasts war' housed within their winter hauld, An' stacks wi' thack an' rape war' happit ticht, The taties up, an' a'thing snod an' richt,-- Then, by the wan licht o' the hint hairst moon, The auld Guidman gaed roun' aboot the toun; An' as he steppit o'er the stibble lan',-- "The wark," quo he, "is feckly a' byehan'. Fair fa' oor folk! they've deen their very best; We've a'thing safe an' soun'--sae Praise be blest! This hairst, my certy! 's been a kittle lang ane, Ae day nocht dein', an' the neist a thrang ane. I sud be thankfu'; Gudeness kens I've rizzon! A' thro', I haenae min' o' sic a sizzon; Sic spates o' rain, syne mochy, dreepie weather, I thocht wud surely waur us a'thegither; Noo beast an' bodie will be brawly sair'd An' something o'er, forbye what pays the laird. It sets folk ill to be o'er crouse an' vaunty; But, 'deed, I'm thankfu' an' sae unco canty That, like the bairns, I'd like to get the play, An' ware upo' mysel' ae idle day. The morrow's morn' I'll early mak' me boun', To see what's deein' i' the borrow's toun. O'er muckle wark, withoot some little ploy, Mak's auld or young a thowless donnart boy." Whan Fortune, wi' her eident wheel aye rowin', Gars a'thing canny tae oor han' come jowin', Sma' thocht hae we what luck may be afore us, Still less that ony trouble may come o'er us; Oor joys, like flow'rs, may bloom at mornin'-tide, At nicht, ae skinklin frost may lay their pride. The sun had scarcely sent his first-born ray To herald to the warld the comin' day, An' scare the starns, afar in heavens blue, Prinkin' themsel's in ilka drap o' dew, Ere Inglis, raxin', rakit up his een,-- Quo he, "Guidwife! I had a thocht thestreen: As at the wark I hae sae steady yarkit, I'd step into the toun an' see the market; Nae _ech_ nor _och_ ken I what nowt are feshin', What aits are at, or gin they're worth the threshin'."