7
Thinking upon my dead and gane,
Auld honest Samuel Macaree.
The door, though locked firm and fast,
Flew wi' a clash against the wa',
Upstarting, round my looks I cast,
When, saints and angels! what I saw,
Stood full before me, on the floor,
Just clad as he was wont to be,
But ah! sae toom, sae pale and poor,
Departed Samuel Macaree.
"Oh, dread nae evil, he began,
'Tis nane o' Satan's imps you see,
For I’m the ghaist o' thy guidman,
Wha ne'er could think o' harming thee;
But greet nae mair, if that ye bear
The sma'est spark o' love to me,
For willa-wa you're wranging sair,
The weary Samuel Macaree.
My wynin'-sheet wi' tears is weet,
I wander, restless, up and down,
Maun traichel thro' the wintry sleet,
When ither ghaists are sleeping sound.
This night I tried to get a nap,
But scarce had clos'd my drowsy ee,
When ye let fa' a muckle drap,
That waken'd Samuel Macaree.
