Sweep up the flure, Janet;
Put on anither peat.
It's a lown and a starry nicht, Janet,
And nowther cauld nor weet.
It's the nicht atween the Sancts and Souls
Whan the bodiless gang aboot;
And it's open hoose we keep the nicht
For ony that may be oot.
Set the cheirs back to the wa', Janet;
Mak ready for quaiet fowk.
Hae a'thing as clean as a windin-sheet:
They comena ilka ook.
There's a spale upo' the flure, Janet,
And there's a rowan-berry!
Sweep them intil the fire, Janet,
Or they'll neither come nor tarry.
Syne set open the outer dure—
Wide open for wha kens wha?
As ye come ben to your bed, Janet,
Set baith dures to the wa'.
She set the cheirs back to the wa',
But ane that was o' the birk;
She sweepit the flure, but left the spale—
A lang spale o' the aik.
The nicht was lown; the stars sae still
War glintin doon the sky;
The souls crap oot o' their mooly graves,
A' dank wi' lyin by.
They faund the dure wide to the wa',
And the peats blawn rosy reid:
They war shuneless feet gaed in and oot,
Nor clampit as they gaed.
The mither she keekit but the hoose,
Saw what she ill could say;
Quakin she slidit doon by Janet,
And gaspin a whilie she lay.
There's are o' them sittin afore the fire!
Ye wudna hearken to me!
Janet, ye left a cheir by the fire,
Whaur I tauld ye nae cheir suld be!