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There liv'd in the North
in the days of yore
a laird deep skilled in majic lore,
In ae nicht's frost, by an oath he swore
He would drive o'er the Loch of Skene.
He ca'd out his coach ere the grey daylicht;
The horses were yoked & harness made ticht;
And the driver was ready to swarff wi' fright
When they stopped at the Loch of Skene.
On locks an' snecks fowks fingers stuck
if they outside should crawl
An' they who shivered in the neuk
wad cry 'preserve it's caul'.
His hair stood up and his knees did knock
When the Laird ahint him to someone spoke
And was answered again by a raven's croak
Which shook a' the Loch of Skene.
The place where he cross'd is weel kent yet;
Though you search wi' a gun or drag wi'a net
The fient a fowl or a fish you'll get
In the track o' the Laird of Skene.
When the winter nichts grow lang and cauld,
Strange tales are till the day bout him told
And the halflin or hero, be they ever so bauld
Grow airgh when they hear o' Skene.written by one of the Cluny Gordons in the early 1800s about Alexander, Laird SkeneThere is also a broadside ballad about the nearest town.