Johnnie Campbell's Hallae'en

Halla-een wus wat thon year,
Wat an wunny, dark an drear,
Johhnie wus a tailor boul,
Trampin homeward in the coul,
Wat an weary trampin hame,
Campbell wus his ither name,
An his hinkershey o’ blue,
Wus wae epples packit fu,
Rosy cheekit an yella green,
Epples for his Halla-een.

Whusslin hard tae keep up heart,
On the road’s maist lonely pairt,
On this wunny nicht an wet
Sich a crew o’ boys he met,
Sma’er than the human race,
Men wae salla weezen’t face,
Pechin, gruntin ohs an ahs,
Bearin some unholy pack,
Lake a coffin lang an blak,
An a coffin sure it wus.
Johnnie stapp’t in terror sair,
Up-richt on his heid the hair
Riz at sich an affa sicht,
On that wat an gusty nicht,
Then he hard the crew discuss
Whut thoor burden blak micht weigh,
Hard the heid yin o them say,
‘Wha’s tae bear the corpse for us?’
Hard o’ misery the cray,
Looder that the wun sae high,
‘Wha but Johnnie Campbell’s fit?
Johnnie’s joost the lad for it.’

On the tailor’s bendit bakk,
Straicht they strapp’t the coffin blak,
Johnnie stagger’t, Johnnie stapp’t,
Then his face an hans they slapp’t,
Prick’t his erims wae needle pins,
Keek’t his bendy tailor shins,
Gied him whut wus whut wae whins.
On he scrammel’t wae his load,
Up the wat an guttery road,
Bendin, swayin, wile wae fricht,
In the wun that roarin nicht,
Cursit tae wae fairy sicht,

A’ oot roon him he cud see
Witches broomstick mount’t flee,
Spirits colourless an rare,
Wabble’t in the gusty air.
Imps wur roostin in the trees,
Demons happ’t aboot lake fleas.
Yinced he sa the Wheesht himsel,
Passin by wae sulphurous smell.

Sae in terror an in pain,
Through the dark an through the rain,
Wrastlin wae the stormy blast,
Kil-na-derg wus raych’t at last,
On the soakin cliy an weeds
Johnnie drappit gyley deed,
While the fairies fae his bakk,
Cut the coffin lang an blakk,
Then in ring they squatt’t doon,
Him in the middle, them al roon.
Squatt’t an commence’t tae talk,
Dra’in plans o’ graves wae chalk,
On a tombstone at thoor bakks,
Tae an imp thocht fit tae ax,
Och the oagly weezent knave,
‘Wha’s tae dig the corpse’s grave?’
Then anither wretch replied,
Fae his perch, a toom astride,
‘Wha but Johnnie Campbell’s fit?
Johnnie’s joost the lad fer it.’

Spade they geen him, shovel tae,
Toul him whut he be-tae dae,
Order’t grave baith deep an wide,
Stud in rows the pit aside,
Threepin wae thoor voices shrill,
‘Deeper dig it, deeper still!’
Wat throo ivery dud he wore,
Tailor niver had afore
Fun hissel in sich a plight,
On a wat an wunny nicht.

Hound’t, hurry’t, hustle’t, chid,
In the grave he slipp’t an slid,
Slither’t in the miry clay,
Fear’d tae stap or disobey.
Geen he made a sign tae quit,
Or but slakken’t han a bit,
Doon on him they swoop’t lake cra’s,
Tore his face wae teeth an cla’s,
Thump’t him on the heid wae whins,
Stuck him in the bakk wae pins.

Cryin still wae angry threat,
Deeper, dig it deeper, yit,
Watter swurl’t abane his hose,
Watter dreepit fae his nose,
Watter soak’t him tae the sark,
Still he brawly kep’ at wark,
Dug wae achin han an shin,
Dug wae pain an cut an wound,
Dug an shovell’t tae the groun
Stud a level wae his chin.

Then wae tant an jeer an hoot,
He wus cried in accents gruff,
‘Oot, ye beggar, that’s eneuch’.
Johnnie faintin scrammel’t oot,
Then a corpse-lake oagly knave
Straicht this parable uptook,
Axin wae malicious look,
‘Wha’s tae fill this bonny grave?’
An abain the wun an rain
Come the dreadful answer plain,
‘Wha but Johnnie Campbell’s fit?
Johnnie’s joost the lad for it.’

Slaves the tyrant’s yoke micht spurn,
E’en the trampit worm’ll turn,
Johnnie, face-tae-face wae daith,
Fun his spirit, fun his breath,
Wae the courage o’ despair.
Loodly cried he, then an there
‘Niver divils at yer butt,
Wull I move anither fut,
Niver wull I lay mae heid
In this grave afore I’m deid.

Imps o Satan, spirits cursed,
I defy ye, dae yer worst!’
As he spake, the worried loon
Fummell’t in his poakits roon,
Fummell’t aimless, up an doon,
Till he touched a thing he had,
Something sma’ that made him glad,
T’was a lucky silver bit,
Crookit, thin, for trade unfit,
Sixpance wae a hole in it.

Sixpance he had coont’t loss,
Whupp’t it oot an made a cross,
Lo, behoul ye! At the sign,
Panic seized on Satan’s kine,
Al the unbaptis’it crew
Fled, skedaddled, vanished, flew,
Johnnie wus alane again,
On the road tae Ballycrane,
Battlin wae the wun an rain,
Thinkin o’ his wife an wean,
Wae his hinkershey o’ blue.
Pakk’t wae epples ticht an fu,
Epples rosy, rid an green,
Epples for his Halla-een.

Pat M’Carty, Farmer of Antrim (John Stevenson c.1850-1932)