The land I lately did possess,

Put arsenic in my breakfast mess;
Impeach him, an' revenge my death,

Or else I'll hunt you while you've breath."
The parson now fell o'er wi' fright;

An' Duncan syne slipt out o' sight,
Stripp'd aff his claise, an' fause red hair,
An' to his chamber did repair-

Right glad he'd play'd his part sae weel,
An' nae a bit remorse did feel.

The priest a while lay like one dead;
At length he lifted up his head,
An' wildly round him he did stare,
To see gin still the ghaist was there;
But whan he look'd an naething saw,
He was right blyth it was awa';
Whan he'd a wee come till himsel',
He pou'd the tow, an' rang the bell;
Baby hersel' was soon asteer,
An' Duncan too, ye needna speer;
An' ilka ane within the biggin',
To rise they needit little priggin',
They a' thrang'd to the servant's ha',
To hear what 'twas the parson saw ;
An' a' appeared extremely sorry,

To hear this mighty dismal story.

They said 'twou'd ne'er come i' their head
That Malcolm wad done sic a deed.

Baby held up her hands wi' wonder,

Turn'd up her een like duck's in thunder;

As nat'rel's ever play was acted,

Until the strings o' them maist cracked ;-
An' a' the lave themsel's did bless,

Crying, "O! wha wad ever thought o' this?
Poison his brither! gude keep's a'!

The like o' this we never saw

Nor scarcely heard o' sic a crime,
Na, nae sin' ever Cain's time.”
Bab says, "I kenna' what to say,
I wiss I'd never seen this day;
Is there nae way to hush this matter;
Speak, reverend sir, for you ken better
What sud be done than sic as me;
Cou'd we na' get poor Malcolm free
O' comin' till a shamefu' end?

Ye ken, he's now my nearest friend;
But I'll be ruled, sir, by you—

Sae ye maun tell me what to do."
Then says the priest: "As soon's 'tis day
I to a justice straught maun gae,
An' there mak aith o' what I saw,
Syne let it tak the course o' law-
This I must do, or Ranald's ghaist
Will never let me be at rest;
Likewise, the servants at the Ha',
Maun gang an' tell a' that they saw !
I'll do his bidden ilka hair.

I never wiss to see him mair,

Yon was a fearfu' sight indeed!

Sae I maun till mysel' tak' heed."

Weel! whan 'twas day the parson now,
An' a' the simple cozen'd crew,

Unto his worship aff did set,

An' him at hame by chance did get ;
The justice, it maun be confess'd,
Was just as senseless as the rest;
For whan the parson tauld this tale,
He took his aith-syne, without fail,
Examin'd a' came frae the Ha',
An' straught to Embro' sent awa.
An' Malcolm now was laid in prison
Afore that he did ken the reason;

But his surprise ye weel may guess,
When he acquainted was wi' this;
It struck the poor youth perfect dumb,
An' did his senses sae benumb

He cudna speak, but hung his head,
An' look'd like's gin he had been dead,
An' they wha saw him in that case,
Said, guilt was printed on his face.
The day o' trial now was set,
An' a' concern'd did summons get;
An' mony ane, baith far an' near,
Set aff this unco case to hear.
Bab and the priest, frae Garron Ha',
Did in a post chaise ride awa';
The lave on horseback aff did ride;
But mark ye now, what did betide
These guilty wretches at the last,

When they thought Malcolm grippit fast :-
Whan Duncan near Linlithgow got,

His horse took fleg at a raised stot,
Wha frae some butchers gat awa',
An' ran an' puttit a' he saw.

The fowk out o' his road did rin,
An' screich'd an' made sae muckle din,
That Duncan's horse awa' did gallop,
An' on the road gar'd him play wallop,
An' smashed him a', by this same token,
His legs an' three o's ribs were broken,
Forby a clink upo' the head,

An' there he lay 's gin he'd been dead,
To the neist house they trail'd him in,
An' for a doctor aff did rin.

When he'd a wee come to himsel'
His state nae mortal man could tell,
Nor half describe his awfu' case,

When death did stare him i' th' face.

A priest he quickly did require,
An' ane they brought at his desire.
There he confess'd upo' the spot
His share in a' the hellish plot.
The priest did for the provost send,
As Duncan seem'd near to his end,
Wha came, an' his confession took,
An' Duncan sware till't on the book.
Near three hours langer did he live,
Prayin' his Maker to forgive
His foul misdeeds, wi' his last breath,
Syne sunk into the arms o' death.
The provost now for Embro' set,
For by this time the Court was met ;
An' when the judges took their station,
He shaw'd them Duncan's declaration,
This fill'd the Court wi' gryte surprise,
That any human could devise,

A scheme sae horrid an' sae evil.

Then quick laid hand on that she-devil,

Baby, an' sent her to the prison,

To try her at convenient season.

This turn'd the chance wi' her, I trow,
For Malcolm was acquitted now,
An' she hersel' put in his place,
To her confusion and disgrace.
Now deep despair did fill her mind,
An' ere she was an hour confin'd

She wi' a razor nick't her throat,

An' down she fell upo' the spot;

An' to the last did curse and swear,

An' a' within the jail did fear.
This story made nae little noise,
But a' gude people did rejoice

That Malcolm's innocence was clear,

An' wi' loud shouts they did him cheer.

A few month after, Malcolm now
Unto Auld Reekie bade adieu,

Took hame his bride to Garron Ha',
An' never after gade awa';

But settled there wi' his dear wife,
They liv'd a lang an' happy life,
An' were respected mony a year,
For a' the neipers lov'd them dear.

Our tale we've now brought to an end;
We see that Heaven does aye defend
The upright, who, in God do trust ;
But lays the guilty in the dust.

An' sic as vilely spurn his law,
Witness"The Ghaist o' Garron Ha'."

Watty and Meg.

One of the most gifted of Paisley's many gifted sons, Alexander Wilson, the author of "Watty and Meg," was born on the 6th of July, 1766. He was originally designed for the ministry, but was instead brought up to the trade of a handloom weaver. Ultimately he developed into a pedlar-an occupation which, he said, was more appropriate to a "mortal with legs" than tramping the treddles of a handloom. In his twenty-eighth year he went to America, where in a short time he developed into a valued ornithologist, and prepared a work on the American ornithology, which will ever be regarded as his magnum opus. He died in America on the 23rd of August, 1813, the cause of his death being a cold caught in swimming a river while in pursuit of a rare species of bird of which he had long been in search.

Wilson's greatest poem, "Watty and Meg," was first issued anonymously in 1792, and sprang into immediate favour, no less than one hundred thousand copies of it being disposed of within a few weeks. The author was