THE

FARMER'S HA',

BY DR CHARLES KEITH.

WITH THE

FARMER'S INGLE.

BY ROBERT FERGUSSON.

THE

FARMER'S HA'.

IN winter nights, wha e'er has seen
The Farmer's canty Ha' conveen,
Finds a' thing there to please his een,

And heart enamour'd,

Nor langs to see the town, I ween,

That houff o' clamour.

Whan stately stacks are tightly theekit,
And the wide stile is fairly steekit,
Nae birkie, sure, save he were streekit

For his lang hame,

But wad gie mair for ae short week o't
Then I can name.

Hire-women ay the glowmin hail,
For syne the lads came frae the flail,
Or else frae haddin the plough-tail,

That halesome wark :

Disease about they dinna trail,

Like city spark.

They a' drive to the ingle cheek,
Regardless o' a fian o' reek,

And well their meikle fingers beek,

To gie them tune,

Syne sutors al'son nimbly streek,

To mend their shoon..

They pu' and rax the lingel tails,
Into their brogs they ca' the nails;
Wi' hammers now, instead of flails,

They make great rackets,

And set about their heels wi' rails

O' clinking tackets.

And ay till this misthriven age,
The gudeman here sat like a sage,
Wi' mill in hand, and wise adage

He spent the night;

But now he sits in chamber cage,

A pridefu' wight.

The lasses wi' their unshod heels,
Are sittin at their spinning wheels,
And well ilk blythsome kemper dreels

And bows like wand:

The auld gudewife the pirny reels

Wi' tenty hand.

The carlin, ay for spinning bent,

Tells them right aft, they've fawn ahint,