Glen Collection of printed music > Printed text > Poems and songs, chiefly in the Scottish dialect

His bus'ness done, 'twas near the gloaming,
And aye the King o' Storms was foaming.
The doors did ring — lum-pigs down tumbl'd,
The strands gush'd big — the sinks loud rumbl'd;
Auld grannies spread their looves, and sigh'd,
Wi' " O Sirs ! what an awfu' night !" —
Poor Towser shook his sides a' draigl'd,
And's master grudg'd that he had taigl'd ;
But, wi' his merchandizing loaoV
Come weel, come wae, he took the road.
Now clouds drave o'er the fields like drift,
Night flung her black cleuk o'er the lift;
And thro' the naked trees and hedges*
The horrid storm, redoubl'd, rages ;
And, to complete his piteous case,
It blew directly in his face. —
Whyles 'gainst the foot-path stabs he thumped,
Whyles o'er the coots in holes he plumped ;
But on he gaed, and on he waded,
Till he at length turn'd faint and jaded.
To gang he could nae langer bide,
But lay down by the bare dyke-side—