Page:Prophecies of Thomas the Rhymer (1).pdf/24

 Thrummy him thanked, and syne his 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 had 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 docs lang'er. 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 bye.