But gin yo gang but twa miles forret,
Aside the kirk dwalls Robbie Dorret,
Wha keeps a change house, sells guid drink,
His house you may mak out I think.
Quoth Thrummy, That’s o’er far awa,
The roads are sae blawn up wi’ snaw,
To mak it is not in our power;
For look ye, there a gathering shower
Is coming on— you’ll let us bide,
Tho’ we should sit by the fire-side.
The Landlord said to him, Na, na
I canna let you bide ava,
Chap off, for ’tis no worth your while
To bide, when ye hae scrimp twa mile
To gang— sae quickly aff ye’ll steer,
For faith, I doubt ye’ll nae be here.
Twa mile! quo’ Thrummy, de’il speed me
If frae your house this night I jee;
Are we to starve in Christian land?
As lang’s my stick bides in my hand,
An’ silver plenty in my pouch,
To nane about your house I’ll crouch;
Landlord, you needna be sae rude,
For faith we’ll make our quarters good.
Come, John, let’s in, we’ll take a seat,
Fat sorrow gars you look sae blate?
Sae in he gangs and sets him down:
Says he, They’re nane about your town
Sall put me out, till a new-day.
As lang’s I’ve siller for to pay.
The Landlord said, Ye’re rather rash.
To turn ye out we sanna fash,
Since ye’re sae positive to bide,
But troth ye’s sit by the fire-side;
I tald ye else of beds I’ve nane
Unoccupied, except bare ane,
In it, I fear ye winna lye,
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