The poems and literary prose of Alexander Wilson ... for the first time fully collected and compared with the original and early editions ... edited ... by the Rev. Alexander B. Grosart ... with portrait, illustrations, &c |
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EPPIE AND THE DEIL.
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 | The poems and literary prose of Alexander Wilson |  |
EPPIE AND THE DEIL.
A TALE.
Auld Eppie was a thrifty wife,
An' she had spun maist a' her life,
For threescore yeer row't in her cloak,
She sat, an' rugged at the rock.
An' she had spun maist a' her life,
For threescore yeer row't in her cloak,
She sat, an' rugged at the rock.
As Eppie's life had lang been single,
She whyles span by a neibor's ingle,
An' when the sin slade out o' sight,
She dauner't hamewards owre the height,
Lamenting aft that poortith caul',
For her to spin wha scarce could crawl.
She whyles span by a neibor's ingle,
An' when the sin slade out o' sight,
She dauner't hamewards owre the height,
Lamenting aft that poortith caul',
For her to spin wha scarce could crawl.
As Eppie wi' her wheel gaed hame,
Toom hunger crackin' in her wame,
Made her regret wi' mony a grane,
That she sae far a-fiel' had gaen;
The wind whyles whirlin' roun' the rock,
Aft lent her on the lug a stroke;
Right cankry to hersel' she crackit,
“That wheel o' mine—the devil take it—”
Nae sooner had she said the word
Than Clootie, shapet like a burd,
Flew down, as big's a twomont ca',
An' clinket Eppie's wheel awa',
Ha'f dead wi' fright, up to the lift
She glowr't, an' saw him spur like drift,
As fast as ony bleeze o' pouther,
Out through the cluds wi't owre his shouther.
“Aye, aye,” quo Epps, “an' so it's you,
Ye aul', confounded, thief-like sow!
Nae doubt ye're keen to try yer han'
Amang yer hairy, blackguard ban'?
Ye maybe think that spinning's naething,
An' that it wastes na sap nor breathing?
Ye're new-fangl't now, but wait a wee
Till ance ye've spun as lang as me,
I'll wad a dollar, Mr. Deil,
Ye'll gladly gie me back my wheel.”
Toom hunger crackin' in her wame,
Made her regret wi' mony a grane,
That she sae far a-fiel' had gaen;
The wind whyles whirlin' roun' the rock,
Aft lent her on the lug a stroke;
Right cankry to hersel' she crackit,
“That wheel o' mine—the devil take it—”
Nae sooner had she said the word
Than Clootie, shapet like a burd,
Flew down, as big's a twomont ca',
An' clinket Eppie's wheel awa',
Ha'f dead wi' fright, up to the lift
She glowr't, an' saw him spur like drift,
As fast as ony bleeze o' pouther,
Out through the cluds wi't owre his shouther.
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Ye aul', confounded, thief-like sow!
Nae doubt ye're keen to try yer han'
Amang yer hairy, blackguard ban'?
Ye maybe think that spinning's naething,
An' that it wastes na sap nor breathing?
Ye're new-fangl't now, but wait a wee
Till ance ye've spun as lang as me,
I'll wad a dollar, Mr. Deil,
Ye'll gladly gie me back my wheel.”
Cloots heard, and though he was the devil,
For ance he acted vera civil,
For laughin' at poor Eppie's crack,
He threw the wheel down on her back.
For ance he acted vera civil,
For laughin' at poor Eppie's crack,
He threw the wheel down on her back.
MORAL.
Whan ill luck comes, be't mair or less,It's aye best then to acquiesce,
And rather laugh, though gear sud lea' us,
Than whinge whene'er its harl't frae us.
This taks the stang frae ilka cross,
And gars us rise aboon the loss;
Gars Fortune whiles gie owre to hiss us,
And smiling, turn about and bless us.
| The poems and literary prose of Alexander Wilson | |