Page:Underwoods, Stevenson, 1887.djvu/136

112 But saw ye ne'er some pingein' bairn

As weak as a pitaty-par'n'—

Less üsed wi' guidin' horse-shoe aim

Than steerin' crowdie—

Packed aff his lane, by moss an' cairn,

To ca' the howdie.

Wae's me, for the puir callant than!

He wambles like a poke o' bran,

An' the lowse rein, as hard's he can,

Pu's, trem'lin' handit;

Till, blaff! upon his hinderlan'

Behauld him landit.

Sic-like—I awn the weary fac'—

Whan on my muse the gate I tak,

An' see her gleed e'e raxin' back

To keek ahint her;—

To me, the brig o' Heev'n gangs black

As blackest winter.