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Poems

By James Logie Robertson

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182

PAT-LUCK.

The monk had a greedy ee,
The monk wanted siller,
The monk cam' to see
Auld Widow Miller.
In a wee theekit hoose
Auld Widow Miller sat,
Ne'er a cricket half sae croose,
Scrapin' her parritch-pat.
Great faith in haly men,
Great faith had she;
That's a pat amon' ten,
That pat, quo' he.
Puir auld Widow Miller
What will she dae?
No a plack left o' siller,
The pat gane tae!

183

Hame ran the greedy freer,
Girnin' as he gaed;
Wha like, ye needna speer,—
The pat on his head.
Loupin' a wide ditch
Him an' hame atween,
Down wi' a hasty pitch
The pat's owre his een!
Up again it winna come
Rug he ne'er sae sair,
And the mannie's far fra hame,
Beast nor body near.
Noo a roar an' noo a race,—
Gloamin' i' the sky!
Here and there in desert place
Rase the lanely cry!
Thro' a kintra town he rins,
Bellowin' like a bull;
Haste ye! hoose ye! waukrife weans,
Sandie's oot, an' wul'!

184

Auld wifie at the door,—
Yer apron owre yer een!
—Shuh!—He's by like stour,
Hardlins seen!
Noo everybody's hearkenin',
An' ilka winker's wide;
—Eh! but i' the darkenin'
The horns winna hide!
Burn-the-win', neist mornin',
Was lyin' whaur he fell;
He aimed a clink at Hornie
That sair mischiev'd himsel'.
A pat he dang to shairds
An' hammer heft baith;
The bits, ye'll see them in his yaird
A witness o' the truth!
The monk has a sair head,
His chafts winna chow;
On beef an' greens he winna feed
He's made a Lenten vow!