Page:Prophecies of Thomas the Rhymer, the ancient Scotch prophet (1).pdf/27

 But gin ye gang but twa miles forret, Aside the kirk dwalls Robbie Dorret, Wha keeps a change house, sells guid drink, His house you may mak out I think. Quoth Thrummy, that's our far awa, The roads are sae blawn up wi' snaw, To mak it is not in our power; For look ye, there's a gathering shower. Is coming on—you'll let us bide, Tho' we should sit by the fire-side. The Landlord said to him, na, na, I canna let you bide ava, Chap off, for 'tis no worth your while, To bide, when ye hae scrimp twa mile. To gang—sae quickly aff ye'll steer, For faith, I doubt ye'll nae be here. Twa mile! quo' Thrummy, de'il speed me, If frae your house this night I jee; Are we to starve in Christian land? As lang's my stick bides in my hand, An' silver plenty in my pouch, To nane about your house I'll crouch; Landlord, you needna be sae rude, For faith we'll make our quarters good. Come, John, let's in, we'll take a seat, Fat sorrow gars you look sae blate? Sae in he gangs and sets him down: Says he, they're nane about your town, Sail pull me out, till a new-day, As lang's I've siller for to pay. The Landlord said, ye're rather rash, To turn ye out we sauna fash, Since ye're sae positive to bide, But troth yese sit by the fire-side; I tald ye else of beds I've nane, Unoccupied, except bare ane, In it, I fear ye winna lie, For stoutest hearts have aft been shy,