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The following Ballad is written to preserve a legend, long, and at one time very commonly, known in the district of Fyvie. Dennilair is a picturesque ravine which runs directly from the Parsonage, All Saints', Woodhead, to the river Ylhan, a little above where it enters the Braes o' Gight, and is one of the loveliest spots in a district justly famed for its beautiful scenery.

OH, veircUy wild is Dennilair The bravest, bauldest, dinna care To wanner, e'en 'mid noontide's glare Doon by its stream ; Tho' fair the flowers that deck its braes, And blythe the birds that lilt their lays, Nae sweet-faced bairns there mak plays, Or happy dream, Oh, weirdly wild is Dennilair, When claps o' thunder rend the air. An' forket lightning's vivid glare Sets hills aflame. When eerie soughs swall o' the breeze. An' sabs and sichs come thro' the trees. The guidman's blood was like to freeze As he rade hame. At nicht when a' is husht an' still Save win's low sabbin' on the hill. Or eident flow o' stream an' rill, Ghaists meet, they say : An' when the mtnie is i' the west. An' larks begin to leave the nest, Ane, troubled mair than a' the rest, Alane will stray. ' Crossna the ford," the dame implores, ' The water 's deep, hear hoo it roars — An', oh ! I fear the ghaist 's afore 's On sic a nicht. We '11 meet him lone on bank or brae ; Oh ! turn, guidman, till brak o' day ; We're far eneuch this dreary way — I '11 dee wi' fricht.' Wi' face as white's the driven snaw He noiseless glints thro' leafy shaw,- Tlie blossoms feelna his footfa' — He treads sae licht : An' aft as 'neath a tree he stan's, He wrings in wae his fleshless han's, But nane will stop to tak comman's Frae sic a wicht. In vain she begs : nae cry he hears As doon the broken road he tears. His ain heart beatin' lood its fears That winna rest. Still deeper in auld Daisi/'s sides He ca's the spurs as on he rides ; Nor cares tho' ilka hillock hides A fearsome ghaist. Ae fearfu' nicht o' wind an' rain — The like o 't 's ne'er been seen again- A cottar's wife was seized wi' pain On jizzen bed : The guidman raise — drest in a crack, Btit spakna till on Daisy's back : — ' My wife, wae's me, is on the rack An' near han' dead. He nears the ford, the dame a-hin'. The sheltie tearin' on like win' — ' He 's swift o' fit wha '11 tak me in,' The guidman says. Alack ] when hauf-way thro' the ford. He hears a groan an' syne a word — An' sees a fleshless han' — 'The Lord Preserve 's ! ' — he prays. An' I 'm nae keen aboot this road ; I winner gin the ghaist 's abroad. That Daisy swithers 'neath her load 'Tween death an' life ? ' He digs the spurs deep in her sides. An' wi' a death-like tremor rides. The ford is passed — he sees whaur bides The canny wife. ' Ye ride richt fast, my brave guidman. But dinna fear my fleshless han', I 'se guide yere beast wi' care an' cann Thro' ford or flood ; I ken ilk fit o' Dennilair, In winter bleak an' simmer fair I 've travelled here, baith late an' air Hill, dale, an' wood.