‘There lives a smith on the water-side,
Will shoe my little black mare for me;
And I’ve a crown in my pockét,
And every groat of it I wad gie.’—
XI
‘The night is mirk, and it’s very mirk,
And by candle-light I canna weel see;
The night is mirk, and it’s very pit mirk,
And there will never a nail ca’ right for me.’—
XII
‘Shame fa’ you and your trade baith,
Canna beet[1211] a good fellow by your mystery[1212];
But leeze me on[1213] thee, my little black mare,
Thou’s worth thy weight in gold to me.’
XIII
There was horsing, horsing in haste,
And cracking of whips out owre the lee,
Until they came to the Bonshaw wood,
Where they held their council privately.
XIV
Some says, ‘We’ll gang the Annan road;
It is the better road,’ said they;
But up bespake then Dicky Ha’,
The wisest of that company: