A CURSING


So you're coming, ye reivers and rogues,
When the men will be fighting afar--
Oh! all the Mac Quithens[1] are bold
When it's only with women they'll war

Weasels that creep in the dark!
Foxes that prowl in the night!
Rats that are hated and vile!--
O hasten you out of my sight!

Oh! my cow you would take from my byre?--
This day will the beggars be brave!
You'd be lifting the thatch from the roof
If you hadna' a roof to your cave

Your chief he's the lord o' the lies!
A wind-bag his wife wi' the brag!
Your clan is the pride o' the thieves--
Whose meal will you have in your bag?

Now, Laspuig Maclan[2] may blush--
Oh! he'll be the sorrowful man--
His fame for the thieving is gone
To the reivers and rogues of your clan

You'll spare me "so old and so frail,
Fitter to die than to live?"