Classic Poem

Near where o'er monny a craggy steep,
The Liddle winds its flood;
Deep in the bosom of a glen,
A Kirk a' lonely stood.

Nor house nor hall for monny a mile,
Was seen on ilka side,
But gloomy solitude appear'd
To mark the prospect wide,

Save ablins when the peasant swain,
His low'ring heifers led,
Or sporting o'er the mountains brae,
The fleecy lambkins fed.

For if by chance mid mirky night,
The shepherd sought his cot,
With studied care he'd strive to shun,
This melancholy spot.

Syne fame had round the country rung.
That monny o flaysome sight,
Had in the lone kirk yard been seen,
Oft by the moon's pale light.

Especially whene'er a corpse,
Was taen to his lang home,
Some de'il was sure to take his post,
Close o'er the new-made tomb.

Oft by miscanter this way led,
The nighted traveller's seen,
A frightful ghaist array'd in white,
Where a new grave had been.

And true, tho' wonderful it is,
Suon as he met the light,
He has deleerit turn'd and swoon'd,
Wi' thinking on the sight.

Full oft the reeling carlin too
Wi' swats an' sleep misleer'd,
Their wits have tint wi' sprights beheld,
As they have this way steer'd.

Nea sneaking suitor frae his lass,
Tho' this were e'er sea bain,
But snaip'd wi' fear o' goblins dire,
Another gait has taen.

May not the bauldest of the bauld,
When gloomy black'd the bent,
Wad bauldly tempt the dang'rous pass,
Were certain skaith was kent.

It chanc'd ae night ane Kirsty Bell,
For de'ils no' muckle flay'd,
Had lang ayond the hour o' twal,
At the neist Clachan staid.

For Jemmy Ruikbies cracks and yell,
Sea occupied his pate,
He ne'er ance thought tho' it was dark
An' wet, about his gait.

The nearest way to Kirsty's house,
Lay by the lonely kirk,
But who sea brave wad try the road,
At midnight wet an' mirk.

Beside a neybor had yestreen,
Been to the earth consign'd;
These circumstances a' conspir'd,
To damp the callans mind.

But he maun hame, befa' what will,
Let de'ils or darkness league,
Tho' terrors mair employ'd his mind,
Than thoughts o' the fatigue.

But tother Hawick jill put down,
Pot valiant made the wight,
An' off he sets to feace the storm,
And horrors of the night.

O'er monny a hill, thro' monny a gill,
He grap'd his tractless way,
At last drew near the place and where
The dismal kirk yard lay.

And as he near'd the fated bit,
By ilk dyke nuik he past,
His een wi' wild enquiring gaze,
Are on each object cast.

At length a wee bit spunk o' light,
Transfix'd his wand'ring eyes,
Chill horror shook his manly frame,
And fill'd him with surprise.

A chilly sweat his limbs bedew'd,
His hair erected stood,
An icy coldness seem'd to stop,
The current of his blood.

But suon his courage he resumes,
Yet cautiously proceeds,
To where out by the steeples end,
The winding pathway leads.

Here at the corner of the kirk,
Arriv'd he views wi' dread,
A ghaistly spectre pale and wan,
In funeral garb array'd.

Fornent him yawn'd a frightful grave,
On ilk side o' the ground
Lay skulls and various other bains,
Confus'dly scatter'd round.

A' power o' motion now seem'd lost,
Fear nearly stopp'd his breath,
Retreat was vain while to proceed,
Seem'd hurrying on to death.

The spectre ey'd him, and a luik
On Kirsty cast askance,
But wi' a ghaistlike beck advis'd,
The carle not to advance.

But this wee interval of pause,
Contributes to compose
His drooping courage, which ance mair
Rekindling, bravely rose.

Conscious of nea uncommon vice,
Thought Kirsty to himsell,
For what need I be flay'd to feace,
The hale train band o' hell.

Besides imposters weel I wat,
Have been baith rife an' great,
An' ablins searching this may shew,
Has been but a mere cheat.

What tho' the de'il befwore him stood,
An' menac'd his approach;
The whisky steever'd in his pow,
He fear'd him not a roach.

No Kit embolden'd by despair,
Or stupid wi' affright,
Resolv'd to have a nearer stand,
To contemplate the sprite.

Wi' panting heart tho' stedfast eye,
He view'd him o'er and o'er,
But sec a nither awfu' sight,
He ne'er beheld before.

His head seem'd tow'ring to the lift,
His een horrific glar'd,
Whilst on th' intrusive visitant,
The spectre sternly star'd.

And thrice he shook his hideous head,
Thrice wav'd him to haud back,
And thrice he stamped wi' his foot,
But fient a word he spak.

Oh, whisky, thou most potent draught,
Wi' thee, what powers we feel,
Thy influence can inspire the heart,
Wi' pith to dare the de'il.

Undaunted Kirsty saw him nod,
Undaunted met his stare,
Resolv'd if possible to trace
The end of this affair.

But as he offer'd to advance,
To face the frightfu' foe,
The fantom rais'd a spade on high,
And aim'd a deadly blow.

Which swift descending on his crown,
His skull, tho' thick, had broke,
Had not our wight wi' agile spring.
Step'd back, and shunn'd the stroke.

Convinc'd frae carnal proofs like these,
He'd here nea spirit found,
Kit on him leyke a tyger lap,
An' hurl'd him to the ground.

For fear subsiding, strength increas'd,
When join'd in closer strife,
An' murder, loud the miscreant skirl'd,
An'piteous begg'd his life.

What are you? what's your bus'ness here?
Quo' Kirsty, speak, reply,
Take heed and don't equivocate,
Or else by heaven you die!

Here in this newly howked grave,
Thy carcase will I stow,
Unless that thou shall answer me,
All I shall seek to know.

O spare my life, the wretch exclaim'd,
O spare these vengefu' blows,
An' a' that you desire to ken,
I'll faithfully disclose.

My cot's a wee bit down the burn,
I lead a shepherd's life,
These hands have a to fin that feeds,
Six young anes and a wife.

I've struggl'd sair, baith late and air,
To keep them g'n wi' bread,
An' monny a bitter baste we bade,
In times o' pinchin' need.

What else but need cou'd bring me here,
To do this dismal act,
An' what will fo'ks not undertake,
By poortith sair attack'd.

An' oft as death a neybor sent,
In peace to his lang home,
My custom's been at dead of night,
To howk him frae his tomb.

An' monny a clay-cold corpse I've stripp'd,
Of a' their funeral graith,
That brats an' sarks have weel supply'd,
For wife an' wee anes baith.

For haith I thought it nea great harm,
To rob the slumb'ring dead,
O things that they cud never want,
O things that we had need.

Fu' weel I kend the country's fears,
By vulgar panic bred,
'Twas these secur'd me from surprise,
An' left me nought to dread.

Nor wad the bauldest of the swains,
Have on discovery thought,
Had you not accidentily,
By chance thus found me out.

To a' that ye have sought to ken,
My answers are sincere,
Nor need you question ought I say,
Seyne you survey me here.

No, faith, quoth Kit, I've nea dispute,
The proofs are far owr strang,
An' for the trade that here ye've held,
Ye weel deserve to hang.

But seyne 'tis leyke ye may'nt ageane,
Sec bus'ness undertake,
Ise e'en release an' let ye gang,
For weyfe an' wee anes sake.

Bauld Kirsty thus wi' whisky arm'd,
This ghaist sea dreadfu' laid;
The dead fo'k undisturb'd now lie,
The living pass unflay'd.