Of a' the festivals we hear,
Frae Handsel-Monday till New Year,
There's few in Scotland held mair dear
—For mirth, I ween,
Or yet can boast o' better cheer,
—Than Hallowe'ndash.

Langsyne indeed, as now in climes
Where priests for siller pardon crimes,
The kintry 'round in Popish rhymes
—Did pray and graen;
But customs vary wi' the times
—At Hallowe'ndash.

Ranged round a bleezing ingleside,
Where nowther cauld nor hunger bide,
The farmer's house, wi' secret pride,
—Will a' convene;
For that day's wark is thrown aside
—At Hallowe'ndash.

Placed at their head the gudewife sits,
And deals round apples, pears, and nits;
Syne tells her guests, how, at sic bits
—Where she has been,
Bogle's ha'e gart folk tyne their wits
—At Hallowe'ndash.

Grieved, she recounts how, by mischance,
Puir pussy's forced a' night to prance
Wi' fairies, wha in thousands dance
—Upon the green,
Or sail wi' witches owre tOfrance
—At Hallowe'ndash.

Syne, issued frae the gardy-chair,
For that's the seat of empire there,
To co'er the table wi' what's rare,
—Commands are gi'ndash;
That a' fu' daintily may fare
—At Hallowe'ndash.

And when they've toomed ilk heapit plate,
And a' things are laid out o' gate,
To ken their matrimonial mate,
—The youngsters keen
Search a' the dark decrees o' fate
—At Hallowe'ndash.

A' things prepared in order due,
Gosh guide's! what fearfu' pranks ensue!
Some i' the kiln-pat thraw a clew,
—At whilk, bedene,
Their sweethearts by the far end pu'
—At Hallowe'ndash.

Ithers, wi' some uncanny gift,
In an auld barn a riddle lift,
Where, thrice pretending corn to sift,
—Wi' charms between,
Their joy appears, as white as drift,
—At Hallowe'ndash.

But 'twere a langsome tale to tell
The gates o' ilka charm and spell;
Ance, gaen to saw hampseed himsel',
—Puir Jock Maclean,
Plump in a filthy peat-pot fell
—At Hallowe'ndash.

Half filled wi' fear, and droukit weel,
He frae the mire dught hardly speel;
But frae that time the silly chiel
—Did never grien
To cast his cantrips wi' the Deil
—At Hallowe'ndash.

O Scotland! famed for scenes like this,
That thy sons walk where wisdom is,
Till death in everlasting bliss
—Shall steek their e'ndash,
Will ever be the constant wish
of