Page:Prophecies of Thomas the Rhymer, the ancient Scotch prophet (1).pdf/36

 Thrummy him thanked, and syne his goud, intil a muckle purse he stowed, An' cramed it in his oxter pouch, And syne sought out his aiken crutch: Said fare-ye-weel, I maun awa, An' see gin I get through the snaw. Weel, fare-ye-weel replied the laird, How comes it that ye ha'na shared, Or gi'en your nei'bour o' the money? Na, by my saul, I, Sir quo' Thrummy, When I the siller, Sir, did win, To had done this wad been a sin. For he cower'd, trembling in the bed, While I it was the Ghaist that laid, And sae my tale I here do end, I hope no one it will offend; My muse will no' assist me langer, The dorty jade sometimes does lang'or. I thought her ance a gay smart lass But now she's come to sic a pass, That a' my cudgelling and weeping, Will hardly wake her out o' sleeping, To plague her mair I winna try, But dight my pen and lay it by.