swore she’d straucht her een.

But Johnnie wi’ a pluck that night
Was seen gaun in his door—
Now, a’ that ken’d him, ken’d that he
A pluck did ’maist adore;
But maist a jaddie he did like,
Aboon a’ ye could name,
For never man liked woman sic
As Johnnie liked his wame:

And Geordie guessing what was up,
Led aff his gallant corps—
Thinking it prudent Nell and Peg
Should settle their ain score—
They helped him up upon the dyke
And canny he crawled up
The gavil cape-stanes on his knees,
Till lum-head he did grup;

And raxing up upon his taes,
He neist looked down the lum,
Just then he heard a lively skirl
And Johnnie’s weel-pleased hum,
And, thro’ a pue o’ steam and reek,
He saw amid a glow
The pan and in’t a fork did pat
As to the tune—“My Joe”!

And bending owre he aimed fair
A stane as big ’s my han’,
And drappin ’t down—a blaze got up—
He’d coupit owre the pan—
Quick as a squirrel he dreipit down
And owre the yard he ran,
As quick cam Johnnie to the front
A sair bewildered man;

And standin’ out fornent the door
He stared up at the lum,
But fient a thing there could he see
Like either head or bum;
Then north he ran, then South again
The lum to look about,
But naething did he see or hear—
It must hae been Auld Cloot:

Anither might hae blamed some ghaist,
But Johnnie’s faith was matter,
He never dreamed o’ starin banes,
His thoughts were something fatter—
He now looked up, then down the street
If he the cause could fin’—
Jock keeking round the corner, now,
Said to his neighbours—rin.

And aff they ran, and in an ace
They a’ were out o’ sight—
Now, Johnnie seeing naething that
Could throw on ’t ony light,
Bethinkin’ o’ his pluck gaed in—
The sight was nane to please,
For some amang the ashes lay,
The rest was in a bleeze:

Did Johnnie, hank’rin’, now sing dool?
Our birkies naething rued;
Nae sooner were they aff wi’ him
Than a new splore was brewed:
Though muckle tickled at the thought
O’ Johnnie’s clappit wame—
Which might hae been as stent’s a drum
And witness o’ its fame—

Yet mair, by far, they liked sic fun
As garred the bluid weel dance;
They liked a chase frae ane that could
Break wi’ them sic a lance:
Now, Jimmie Adams was that ane,
Nae daighie but guid mettle,
And he had what did recommend—
A wee spice o’ the nettle:

That mettle they resolved that night
To put to sairest test,
Nor wad the faut be theirs if not
The nettle stung its best,
For Willie frae his pouch had taen
And charged a muckle scout,
And said that Jimmie he wad show
The wonders o’ a spout.

Now weel they ken’d that he wad chase
And that tae like a gru’—
And whom he caught he’d mak him squeel
As e’re did ony sow—
But what had they to fear frae him?
Each suppler than anither,
Nor was there ane but what might be
To Asahel a brither.

But they made ready for the race;
Their breeks they buckled up;
Their bonnets pued down to their lugs;
Their jackets buttoned up;
And aff they a’ for Jimmie’s set
When coming near the house,
They on their tiptaes slippit up
As quiet as ony mouse.

Will by the curtain keeking in
Saw Jimmie at his supper,
And aye the spune gaun round the bowl,
Syne dippin’ in the butter;
He whispered this in