That e'er he nearer comes oursel
'S a muckle pity. great
The clachan yill had made me canty, village age, cheerful
I wasna fou, but just had plenty; full
I stacher'd whyles, but yet took tent aye staggered, heed
To free the ditches; clear
An' hillocks, stanes, an' bushes kent aye
Frae ghaists an' witches.
The rising moon began to glowre stare