The Deil's Stane Poem by Alexander Anderson

'O whaur hae ye been, my bonnie, bonnie bairns,
Sae lang awa' frae me?
Come in, come in, for I'm weary to hae
Wee Jeanie upon my knee.


I lookit lang doon the howms o' the Craw'ck,
Where the fairies by munelicht play,
Then up to the daisies that grow sae white
On the side o' the Carco brae.


For I thocht that ye micht be pooin' flooers,
An' weavin' them into a croon
For wee Jeanie's heid; but I saw na ane,
Though I lookit roun' an roun'.'


'O, grannie, grannie, we werena there,
Nor yet in the howms doon by;
For we sat by the edge o' the Orchard burn,
An' we heard the cushie's cry.


Then we frichten'd the troots wi' oor wee white feet,
As we paidled up the burn,
Till they splutter'd to win frae oor sicht in the broo,
Wi' mony a jouk an' turn.


But at last we waded nae farrer up,
But set wee Jeanie her lane,
Wi' a bunch o' primroses in her han',
On the tap o' the deil's big stane.'


'O, bairnies, bairnies, what is't ye say?
An' what does your grannie hear?
What made ye gang up to the deil's big stane—
That place sae dark an' drear?


Alake, alake, when the clock strikes twal,
What soun's an' what sichts are there;
When the howlet flaps wi' an eerie cry,
Through the woods o' Knockenhair!


Then chields that hae drucken baith lang an' late
At their howfs in Sanquhar toon,
As they staucher by hear the paidlar's cry,
An' the big stane rumblin' doon.


But here, as we're a' sittin' roun' the fire,
An' wee Jeanie upon my knee,
I will tell ye the tale o' the paidlar's death,
As my mither tauld it to me.


Wee Mungo Girr was an auld, auld man,
Wi' a hump upon his back;
But fu' yauld was he at speelin' a brae
To a herd's house wi' his pack.


For the clink o' siller put smiles on his face,
An' a gleg look in his e'e;
But wae to the greed that brocht on his doom,
An' the death he had to dree.


He keepit his purse in a stockin' fit—
A purse fu' heavy an' lang;
An' ilka mornin' he counted it ow'r,
For fear that it micht gang wrang.


An' aye as the shillin's play'd slip aff his loof,
An' jingled into the lave,
He scartit his heid, an' he hotch'd an' lauch'd
Till he scarce could weel behave.


O, bairnies, bairnies, the love o' gowd
Turns into an awfu' sin,
For the heart grows hard, an' lies dead in the breast,
Like the bouk o' my nieve o' whin.


An' we canna look straicht in oor neebor's face,
For oor human love gets thrawn;
An' we canna look up to the sky abune,
For oor heid is downward drawn.


Sae Mungo, the paidlar, gaed aye half boo'd,
Comin' up or gaun doon a brae;
For the luve o' the siller he liket sae weel
Was in him by nicht an' day.


An' weel could he manage to wheedle an' sell,
To the lassies oot on the hill,
A brooch for their shawls, or a finger ring,
That was gowd in their simple skill.


But alake for the greed that hung ow'r his heid
To bring him meikle woe,
As a thunder cloud rests on the high Bale Hill,
An' darkens the fields below.


But I'll tell ye the tale that my mither tauld,
When I was a toddlin' wean;
It will mak' ye nae mair tak' the Orchard burn
To sit on the deil's big stane.


Ae afternoon, as Mungo, half boo'd,
Held alang steep Carco brae,
Croonin' into himsel', for his heart was glad
Ow'r the bargains he'd made that day;


A' at ance, afore ever he kent, a han'
Touch'd the hump that was on his back,
An', turnin' roun', no a yaird frae himsel'
Was a man that was cled in black.'


'O, Mungo, Mungo, pit doon yer pack,
An' sell to me,' said he,
'A necklace for ane o' the witches o' Craw'ck,
Wha has dune gude wark for me.'


Then the paidlar open'd his pack in a glint,
An' oot wi' the wanted gear;
'A shillin's the price;' said the man in black—
'O, Mungo, your shillin's here.'


Then he slippit the shillin' into his han',
An' steppit alang the brae;
But what made Mungo jump up an' dance,
Like schule weans at their play?


Ay, weel micht he jump like daft, for he saw
A joyfu' sicht, I wis;
Instead o' the shillin' a guinea lay there,
That by nae kent law was his.


Yet he row'd it up in a cloot by itsel',
For fear it micht grow dim,
An' never let on to the neebors he met
O' the luck that had fa'en to him.


The next time gangin' ow'r Carco heicht,
A han' was laid on his back,
An', lookin' aroun', no a yaird frae himsel'
Was the same man cled in black.


Then the paidlar's heart sank doon like a stane
As he thocht to himsel', nae doot,
He has come again to tak' back his ain,
That I canna dae withoot.


But he juist said, 'Mungo, come doon wi' your pack,
An' sell me richt speedily
A necklace for ane o' the witches o' Craw'ck,
Wha has dune gude wark for me.'


Then Mungo, richt happy that this was a',
Cam' oot wi' the wanted gear;
'A shillin's the price;' said the man in black—
'O, Mungo, your shillin's here.'


Then he slippit the shillin' into his loof,
While the paidlar steekit his een;
Nor open'd them up till the man in black
Was naewhere to be seen.


Then he keekit into his loof, an' there
Lay anither gowd guinea bricht;
Sae he row'd it up wi' the first in a cloot,
An' thocht that a' was richt.


The next time gangin' ow'r Carco hill,
A han' was laid on his back,
An', lookin roun', no a yaird frae himsel'
Was the same man cled in black.


But a frichtfu' look was upon his broo,
As he leant against a stane
That Mungo had never seen there afore,
An' thirty tons if ane.


A fear lay cauld at the paidlar's heart,
As he sank doon on his knee—
'Come ye here to work me scaith or ill,
Or to buy a necklace frae me?'


The froon grew black on the stranger's broo
As he cried, like a thunder-peal,
'A necklace o' fire for the neck o' him
Wha cheats baith man an' deil.'


Then the lowe cam' oot at his mooth an' een,
On ilk side o' his heid grew a horn,
As he seized the paidlar an' whirl'd him ow'r
The hill wi' a lauch o' scorn.


Doon, doon the hill, as ye ca' a gird,
Gaed Mungo, flung by the deil;
An' doon row'd that big stane after him,
As steady as some mill-wheel.


Then, keep us a'! what a soun' cam' up
Wi' the paidlar's deein' cry;
It gaed doon the Craw'ck an' doon the Nith,
An' awa' ow'r the hills oot by.


The big stane fell in the Orchard burn,
It lies there till this day;
An' still at its fit is the paidlar's bluid,
That winna wash away.


O, bairnies, bairnies, when ye grow up
To be lads an' lasses fair,
Keep min' o' the death o' Mungo Girr,
An' aye deal frank an' fair.


An', bairnies, be sure an' keep this in min',
For I canna lang be here,
That the deil's big stane is on ilka ane's back
Wha has love for nocht but gear.