The Farmer's Ingle

Whan gloamin gray out owre the welkin keeks;
Whan Batio ca's his owsen to the byre;
Whan Thrasher John, sair dung, his barn-door steeks,
An' lusty lasses at the dightin' tire;
What bangs fu' leal the e'enin's coming cauld,
An' gars snaw-tappit Winter freeze in vain;
Gars dowie mortals look baith blithe an' bauld,
Nor fley'd wi' a' the poortith o' the plain;
Begin, my Muse! and chant in hamely strain.

Frae the big stack, weel winnow't on the hill,
Wi' divots theekit frae the weet an' drift,
Sods, peats, and heathery turfs the chimley fill,
An' gar their thickening smeek salute the lift.
The gudeman, new come hame, is blithe to find,
Whan he out owre the hallan flings his een,
That ilka turn is handled to his mind;
That a' his housie looks sae cosh an' clean;
For cleanly house lo'es he, though e'er sae mean.

Weel kens the gudewife, that the pleughs require
A heartsome meltith, an' refreshin' synd
O' nappy liquor, owre a bleezin' fire:
Sair wark an' poortith downa weel be joined.
Wi' butter'd bannocks now the girdle reeks;
I' the far nook the bowie briskly reams;
The readied kailstands by the chimley cheeks,
An' haud the riggin' het wi' welcome streams,
Whilk than the daintiest kitchennicer seems.

Frae this, lat gentler gabs a lesson lear:
Wad they to labouring lend an eidenthand,
They'd rax fell strang upo' the simplest fare,
Nor find their stamacks ever at a stand.
Fu' hale an' healthy wad they pass the day;
At night, in calmest slumbers dose fu' sound;
Nor doctor need their weary life to spae,
Nor drogs their noddle and their sense confound,
Till death slip sleely on, an' gie the hindmost wound.

On siccan food has mony a doughty deed
By Caledonia's ancestors been done;
By this did mony a wight fu' weirlike bleed
In brulziesfrae the dawn to set o' sun.
'Twas this that braced their gardies stiff an' strang;
That bent the deadly yew in ancient days;
Laid Denmark's daring sons on yird alang;
Garr'd Scottish thristles bang the Roman bays;
For near our crest their heads they dought na raise.

The couthy cracks begin whan supper's owre;
The cheering bicker gars them glibly gash
O' Simmer's showery blinks, an Winter's sour,
Whase floods did erst their mailins' produce hash.
'Bout kirk an' market eke their tales gae on;
How Jock woo'd Jenny here to be his bride;
An' there, how Marion, for a bastard son,
Upo' the cutty-stool was forced to ride;
The waefu' scauld o' our Mess John to bide.

The fient a cheep's amang the bairnies now;
For a' their anger's wi' their hunger gane:
Aye maun the childer, wi' a fastin' mou,
Grumble an' greet, an' mak an unco maen.
In rangles round, before the ingle's low,
Frae gudame's mouth auld-warld tales they hear,
O' warlocks loupin round the wirrikow:
O' ghaists, that wine in glen an kirkyard drear,
Whilk touzles a' their tap, an' gars them shake wi' fear!

For weel she trows that fiends an' fairies be
Sent frae the deil to fleetch us to our ill;
That kye hae tint their milk wi' evil ee;
An' corn been scowder'd on the glowin' kiln.
O mock nae this, my friends! but rather mourn,
Ye in life's brawest spring wi' reason clear;
Wi' eild our idle fancies a' return,
And dim our dolefu' days wi' bairnly fear;
The mind's aye cradled whan the grave is near.

Yet Thrift, industrious, bides her latest days,
Though Age her sair-dow'd front wi' runcles wave;
Yet frae the russet lap the spindle plays;
Her e'enin stent reels she as weel's the lave.
On some feast-day, the wee things buskit braw,
Shall heese her heart up wi' a silent joy,
Fu' cadgie that her head was up an' saw
Her ain spun cleedin' on a darlin' oy;
Careless though death should mak the feast her foy.

In its auld lerroch yet the deas remains,
Where the gudeman aft streeks him at his ease;
A warm and canny lean for weary banes
O' labourers doylt upo' the wintry leas.
Round him will baudrins an' the collie come,
To wag their tail, and cast a thankfu' ee,
To him wha kindly flings them mony a crumb
O' kebbuck whang'd, an' dainty fadge to prie;
This a' the boon they crave, an' a' the fee.

Frae him the lads their mornin' counsel tak:
What stacks he wants to thrash; what rigs to till;
How big a birn maun lie on bassie's back,
For meal an' mu'ter to the thirlin' mill.
Neist, the gudewife her hirelin' damsels bids
Glower through the byre, an' see the hawkies bound;
Tak tent, case Crummy tak her wonted tids,
An' ca' the laiglen's treasure on the ground;
Whilk spills a kebbuck nice, or yellow pound.

Then a' the house for sleep begin to green,
Their joints to slack frae industry a while;
The leaden god fa's heavy on their een,
An hafflins steeks them frae their daily toil:
The cruizy, too, can only blink and bleer;
The reistit ingle's done the maist it dow;
Tacksman an' cottar eke to bed maun steer,
Upo' the cod to clear their drumly pow,
Till waukened by the dawnin's ruddy glow.

Peace to the husbandman, an' a' his tribe,
Whase care fells a' our wants frae year to year!
Lang may his sock and cou'ter turn the gleyb,
An' banks o' corn bend down wi' laded ear!
May Scotia's simmers aye look gay an' green;
Her yellow ha'rsts frae scowry blasts decreed!
May a' her tenants sit fu' snug an' bien,
Frae the hard grip o' ails, and poortith freed;
An' a lang lasting train o' peacefu' hours succeed!