When in one night, ere glimpse of morn,
His shadowy flail hath thresh’d the corn,
That ten day lab’rers could not end;
Then lies him down, the lubber[56] fiend,
And stretch’d out all the chimney’s length,
Basks at the fire his hairy strength,
And cropful out of doors he flings,
Ere the first cock his matin rings.”
My readers will, I am sure, more than pardon me for giving them the following poem on Aiken-Drum, for the pleasure of first reading which, many years ago, I am indebted to Mr. R. Chambers’s Popular Rhymes of Scotland, where its “extraordinary merit” is generously acknowledged.