As I was sitting on the hearth
(And O, but a hog is fat!)
A man came hurrying up the path,
(And what care I for that?)
When he came the house unto,
His breath both quick and short he drew.
When he came before the door,
His face grew paler than before.
When he turned the handle round,
The man fell fainting to the ground.
When he crossed the lofty hall,
Once and again I heard him fall.
When he came up to the turret stair,
He shrieked and tore his raven hair.
When he came my chamber in,
(And O, but a hog is fat!)
I ran him through with a golden pin,
(And what care I for that?)
Ye Fattale Cheyse
Ytte wes a mirke an dreiry cave,
Weet scroggis(1) owr ytte creepe.
Gurgles withyn ye flowan wave
Throw channel braid an deep
Never withyn that dreir recesse
Wes sene ye lyghte of daye,
Quhat bode azont(2) yts mirkinesse(3)
Nane kend an nane mote saye.
Ye monarche rade owr brake an brae
An drave ye yellynge packe,
Hiz meany(4) au’ richte cadgily(5)
Are wendynge(6) yn hiz tracke.
Wi’ eager iye, wi’ yalpe an crye
Ye hondes yode(7) down ye rocks, Ahead of au’ their companye
Renneth ye panky(8) foxe.
Ye foxe hes soughte that cave of awe
Forewearied(9) wi’ hiz rin.
Quha nou ys he sae bauld an braw(10)
To dare to enter yn?
Wi’ eager bounde hes ilka honde
Gane till that caverne dreir,
Fou(11) many a yowl(12) ys(13) hearde arounde, Fou(11) many a screech of feir.
Like ane wi’ thirstie appetite
Quha swalloweth orange pulp,
Wes hearde a huggle an a bite,
A swallow an a gulp.
Ye kynge hes lap frae aff hiz steid,
Outbrayde(15) hiz trenchant brande; “Quha on my packe of hondes doth feed,
Maun deye benead thilke hande.”
Sae sed, sae dune: ye stonderes(16) hearde Fou many a mickle(17) stroke, Sowns(18) lyke ye flappynge of a birde, A struggle an a choke.
Owte of ye cave scarce fette(19) they ytte, Wi pow(20) an push and hau’(21) — Whereof Y’ve drawne a littel bytte,
Bot durst not draw ytte au.(22)
Lays of Sorrow No. 1
The day was wet, the rain fell souse
Like jars of strawberry jam,(23) a Sound was heard in the old henhouse,
A beating of a hammer.
Of stalwart form, and visage warm,
Two youths were seen within it, Splitting up an old tree into perches for their poultry At a hundred strokes(24) a minute.
The work is done, the hen has taken
Possession of her nest and eggs,
Without a thought of eggs and bacon,(25)
(Or I am very much mistaken:)
She turns over each shell,
To be sure that all’s well,
Looks into the straw
To see there’s no flaw,
Goes once round the house,(26)
Half afraid of a mouse,
Then sinks calmly to rest
On the top of her nest,
First doubling up each of her legs.
Time rolled away, and so did every shell,
“Small by degrees and beautifully less,”
As the sage mother with a powerful spell(27)
Forced each in turn its contents to express,(28)
But ah! “imperfect is expression,”
Some poet said, I don’t care who, If you want to know you must go elsewhere,
One fact I can tell, if you’re willing to hear, He never attended a Parliament Session, For I’m certain that if he had ever been there, Full quickly would he have changed his ideas, With the hissings,
