Tho’ its scant tap e’en growin’ but little could yield.
For years—nigh twa hunner—it markit the spot
Whaur Mause the witch dwalt in her lanely wee cot;
But dour Eichty-sax sent a drivin’ snaw blast,
An’ the storied link brak ’tween the present an’ past.
Tho’ in summer ’twas bare, an’ had lang tint its charms,
Scarce a leaf e’er was seen on’t to hap its grey arms,
Yet it clang to the brae,[46] rockit sair, sair, I ween,
Wi’ the loud howlin’ winds that blaw doon the Linn Dean.
An’ mony a squall warsled at the deid ’oor o’ nicht.