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... Bigged a bower on yon burn-brae, And theekit it o'er wi' rashes!" "For gude sake!" said Mungo, terrified again at this mad lilting from a man who had anything but song upon his countenance. "You're sure ye didnae see the letter?" asked the Chamberlain again. "Amn't I tellin' ye?" said Mungo. "It's a pity," said the Chamberlain, staring at the lantern, with eyes that saw nothing.
Quhen the cup is fullest, bear it evenest. Qhuen thieves reckons, leal men comes to their geir. Ryme spares no man. Ruse the fair day at even. Rhue and time, grows both in ane garden. Reason band the man. Rome was not bigged on the first Day. Racklesse youth makes a goustie Age. Reavers should not be rewers. Rule youth well, and eild will rule it fell. Ruse the Ford, as ye find it.
That city took Joshua by miracle of God and commandment of the angel, and destroyed it, and cursed it and all them that bigged it again. Of that city was Zaccheus the dwarf that clomb up into the sycamore tree for to see our Lord, because he was so little he might not see him for the people.
Oh, Bessie Bell and Mary Grey, They were twa bonnie lasses; They bigged a bower on yon burn side, And theekt it over wi' rashes. The early glory of autumn was painting the woods of Indiana crimson, orange, purple, as though a rainbow of intensified tints had been broken into fragments, and then scattered broadcast upon the forest.
They bigged a bower on yon burn-brae, And theekit it o'er wi' rashes." He lilted the air with indiscreet indifference to being heard within; and "Wheesh! man, wheesh!" expostulated Mungo. "If himsel' was to ken o' me colloguing wi' ye at the door at this 'oor o' the nicht, there wad be Auld Hornie to pay."
"I've allus taen care that t' moors hae bin cropped fair; thou reckons thou'll feed mair yowes an' lambs on t' moors when thou's bigged thy walls; but thou weant, thou'll feed less. I know mair about sheep nor thou does, and I tell thee thou'll not get thy twee hinds to tend 'em same as a shepherd that's bred an' born on t' moors." "We sal see about that," Metcalfe answered sullenly.
"And they tell me your son is dead yonder," I said, pitying the old man who had now no wife nor child. "So they tell me," said he; "that's the will of God, and better a fast death on the field than a decline on the feather-bed. I'll be weeping for my boy when I have bigged my house again and paid a call to some of his enemies."
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