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By Sarah Leech

O Lettergull, weel may you fare,

And usual broils ne’er vex you mair,
That Providence may aye shew care,
For ane and a’,
Shall ever be my earnest prayer,
Tho’ far awa’.

May barley on your braes still grow,
And rough heads on your Craigen knowe,
Wi’ which to mak’ a rantin lowe,
When North winds blaw,
And gear in plenty on you row,
Tho’ I’m awa.

May ruthless bailiffs ne’er be sent,
To drive you for a back-gaun rent,
But may your time in joy be spent,
Without alarm,
While rosy health and sweet content
Smile on ilk farm.

O that your kye or nowtes may ne’er
Be taught Phil’s cauld poun’ wa’s to fear,
But may you have guid country cheer,
Wi’ beef and meal,
That shall continue thro’ the year,
And never fail.

May nae curst carlin or fell sprite,
Wha ride on broom-stick nags by night,
By cantrips carry off your right,
At morn or e’en,
And elf-shot stanes your kye ne’er blight,
By wounds unseen.

But tak’ a kind advice frae me -
O, tipple not the strong maun bree,
Lest late in Mary’s glen you see
Some goblin sprite,
Or hear the wailing sad banshee
Howl through the night:

For Joyce and Simpson baith can tell,
How they heard there a ghaistly yell;
But what thro’ fear those loons befel,
Let them declare,
And how they scamper’d off pell-mell -
O, what a pair!

Poor silly gowks, they thought the cry
Of Sawney, who lay hid hard by,
Their boasted courage thus to try,
Was that of Clootie,
That darklins came their haste to spy,
When sent on duty.

But fare ye weel - may you ha’e claes,
Wi’ health to roam about the braes,
And Guid preserve you a’ your days,
Frae Satan’s reach,
Is what the muse sincerely prays -
Your’s - Sarah Leech