‘Ae hairst afore the Sherra-moor,—One harvest, Sherriffmuir
I mind't as weel's yestreen, remember, last night
I was a gilpey then, I'm sure young girl
I was na past fyfteen:
The simmer had been cauld an' wat,
An' stuff was unco green; grain, extremely
An' aye a rantin' kirn we gat, rollicking harvest-home
An' just on Halloween
It fell that night.
‘Our stibble-rig was Rab M'Graen, chief harvester