THE KIRN.
Bright now the shortening day, and blythe its close
When to the Kirn the neighbours, old and young,
Come dropping in to share the well-earned feast.
The smith aside his ponderous sledge has thrown,
Raked up his fire, and cooled the hissing brand:
His sluice the miller shuts; and from the barn
The threshers hie, to don their Sunday coats;
Simply adorned, with ribands, blue and pink,
Bound round their braided hair, the lasses trip
To grace the feast, which now is smoking ranged
On tables of all shape, and size, and height,
Joined awkwardly, yet to the crowded guests
A seemly joyous show, all loaded well;
But chief, at the board-head, the haggis round
Attracts all eyes, and even the goodman's grace
Prunes of its wonted length. With eager knife,
The quivering globe he then prepares to broach;
While for her gown some ancient matron quakes,
Her gown of silken woof, all figured thick
With roses white, far larger than the life,
On azure ground,—her grannam's wedding garb,
Old as that year when Sherriffmuir was fought.
Old tales are told, and well-known jests abound.
Which laughter meets half way as ancient friends.
Nor, like the worldling, spurns because thread bare.
When ended the repast, and board and bench
Vanish like thought, by many hands removed,
Up strikes the fiddle; quick upon the floor
The youths lead out the half-reluctant maids.
Bashful at first, and darning through the reels
With timid steps, till, by the music cheered,
With free and airy step, they bound along.
Then deftly wheel, and to their partners' face,
Turning this side, now that, with varying steps.
Sometimes two ancient couples o'er the floor,
Skim through a reel, and think of youthful years.
Meanwhile the frothing bickers soon, as filled,
Are drained, and to the gauntress oft return,
Where gossips sit, unmindful of the dance.
Salubrious beverage! Were thy sterling worth.
But duly prized, no more the alembic vast
Would like some dire volcano, vomit forth
Its floods of liquid fire, and far and wide
Lay waste the land; no more the fruitful boon
Of twice ten shrievedoms, into poison turned,
Would taint the very life blood of the poor,
Shrivelling their heart-strings like a burning scroll.
