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Poem by Alexander Wilson


From the village of Leslie, with a heart full of glee,
And my pack on my shoulders, I rambled out free,
Resolved that same evening, as Luna was full,
To lodge, ten miles distant, in old Auchtertool.

Through many a lone cottage and farm-house I steer'd,
Took their money, and off with my budget I sheer'd;
The road I explored out, without form or rule,
Still asking the nearest to old Auchtertool.

At length I arrived at the edge of the town,
As Phœbus, behind a high mountain, went down;
The clouds gather'd dreary, and weather blew foul,
And I hugg'd myself safe now in old Auchtertool.

An inn I inquired out, a lodging desired,
But the landlady's pertness seem'd instantly fired;
For she saucy replied, as she sat carding wool,
"I ne'er kept sic lodgers in auld Auchtertool."

With scorn I soon left her to live on her pride;
But, asking, was told there was none else beside,
Except an old weaver, who now kept a school,
And these were the whole that were in Auchtertool.

To his mansion I scamper'd, and rapp'd at the door;
He oped, but as soon as I dared to implore,
He shut it like thunder, and utter'd a howl
That rung through each corner of old Auchtertool.

Deprived of all shelter, through darkness I trode,
Till I came to a ruin'd old house by the road;
Here the night I will spend, and, inspired by the owl,
My wrath I 'll vent forth upon old Auchtertool.

Alexander Wilson

Alexander Wilson's other poems:
  1. The Fishermans Hymn
  2. Matilda
  3. Connel and Flora
  4. The Solitary Tutor

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