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io THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF |
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They shorten'd the corp, and they pack'd him tight,
Wi' his legs in a pickle hay; Over the burn, in the sweet moonlight,
They carried him till this brae.
They shovell'd a hole right speedily,
They laid him in on his back — " A right pair are ye," quo' the Pedlar, quo' he,
Sitting bolt upright in the pack.
" Ye think ye've laid me snugly here,
And none shall know my station; But I'll hant ye far, and I'll hant ye near, Father and son, wi' terror and fear,
To the nineteenth generation."
The twa were sittin' the vera next night,
When the dog began to cower, And they knew, by the pale blue firelight,
That the Evil One had power.
It has stricken nine, just nine o' the clock —
The hour when the man lay dead; There came to the outer door a knock,
And a heavy, heavy tread.
The old man's head swam round and round,
The woman's blood 'gan freeze, For it was not like a natural sound, But like some one stumping o'er the ground
On the banes of his twa bare knees. |
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