Page:Humorist.pdf/20

 20

Then frae the hole where he was pent, The Priest approach’d, right well content; With silent pace strade o’er the floor, ’Till he was drawing near the door; Then to escape the cudgel ran, But was not miss'd by the goodman, Wha lent him on the neck a lounder. That gart him o’er the threshold founder, Darkness soon hid him frae their sight; Ben flew the Miller in a fright; “ I trow',” quoth he,"I laid well on; But now he's like our ain Mess John !'’

THE LOSS O’ THE PACK.

’BOUTGATES I hate, quo’ girning Maggy Bring Syne hari’d Watty, greeting, thro’ the ingle. Since this fell question seems sae king to bing In twa-three words I’ll gie ye my opinion.

I wha stand here, in this hair scoury coat, Was ance a Packman, wordy mony a groat;