The poetical works of William Nicholson :: :: University of Virginia Library

But the neist week they lost a quey,
Whilk strayed awa' to Sandy's fey;
Young Betty blythely gaed to get her,
And he, as joyfu' saw and met her.
He spak, she smiled, and looked fu' sweet;
Twa hearts were ne'er so fond to meet.

He clasped her in his arms, and than
He was a truly happy man.
But wha, think ye, could tell the pow'r
O love within that happy hour?
Or how he pressed, and she was kind—
Let lovers picture't in their mind,
That feel the favour o' sic blisses,
Though naething passed but harmless kisses.

Thus hae I seen, in flowery spring,
The rose-tree forth her blossoms fling;
Spread her saft fragrance through the air,
Near by the lily, blooming fair,
Though rudely bent wi' showery blast,
Look fairer when the storm was past.

She vowed, o' gear her frien's sae proud,
Might seek out for her wha they would,
Be't priest, or laird, or limb o' law,
She'd wed wi' him afore them a';
Then bade him come some day and see
What way the auld fouk would tak wi';
And meikle mair they spak about,
For lovers' talk runs seldom out.
When blinks o' day were partly gane,
They parted blythe, to meet again.

But proud o' heart, and damp wi' fear,
To face auld Kate, for want o' gear:
'Twas thus he stack, 'tween hope and doubt,
Till time a difference brought about.
Fortune for ance brak through her rules,
Grown weary aye o' favourin' fools,
And blest him wi' a lump o' siller,
Though he had ne'er made courtship till her.

He had an uncle, without weans,
Lived lang amang the sugar canes.
Had sauld his soul by unfair means,
To win a fortune to his frien's;
Sae destitute o' ought was gude,
For gowd would sauld his flesh and blude;
Had gruesome cau'drons ever boiling,
And scores o' slaves around him toiling;
And aften would himsel' solace
Within their greasy black embrace.
It's a' in taste; but as they tell,
He aye was whipper-in himsel';
And gart the lash wi' rigour crack,
Till red sweat started frae their back;
It cured his spleen to hear their squeels,
To score their hips, and clog their heels:
'Twas strange that hell he never feart,
For nought on yirth comes half sae near't;
But death strak in and scorched his liver,
And boiled his brains up in a fever;
So he maun die, and leave them a'
To far-aff frien's he never saw.

Now Sandy was nae langer blate,
But cam to visit John and Kate,
While Bess was unco blythe to see him;
And a' a hearty welcome gie him;
Kindly for a' his kin they speir;
Says, “ye're an unco stranger here;”
Sae soon an ingle was brought ben,
And soon they plucked the hoodet hen;
A claith was spread upon the board,
And Sandy's Mistered every word.

Kate wi' her ain han' set a chair;
John said a grace like ony prayer;
Then heaps his plate wi' beef and kail,
And bids him tak a hearty meal;
Syne round they swill the barley broo.—

O wealth! what is't ye canna do?
Thou get'st us friends, baith kind and mony;
Maks hamely lasses dear and bonny;
Opes the blate wooer's steekit mouth;
And gars the lawyer speak the truth:
Maks wee men great men, mony a time;
Gars poets preach, and pipers rhyme;
And clears up mony a point o' faith:
In short, reverses a' but death,

Thus luck and love did baith combine
Wi' youth their hearts and han's to join;
His proffers now were frank and warm,
Nor did they deem his offers harm.
The Haly Chanter gat a crown;
A cart was yokit for the town,
To buy the braws they aff did bicker,
Forbye a lade o' laeves and liquor;
Then at the manse, as they cam' by,
Bespake Mess John, the knot to tie.
Thus time, as usual, glade away;
But Sandy thought ilk hour a day,
Till ance that happy e'en drew near
To fill his arms wi' a' was dear;
He thanked his stars and happy fate,
That blest him wi' his bonnie Bet.

It's no for my weak muse's wing
The joys o' bridal nights to sing,

Nor paint the scenes o' virtuous love,
Where twa fond hearts in union move.
Yet, though she downa weel express't,
There's some, nae doubt, will try to guess't.—
Nor will I tak in han' to say
They were quite happy monie a day,
And aye were full as fond o' ither
As the first day they gaed thegither.
There's nane exempit frae life's cares,
And few frae some domestic jars;
A' whiles are in, and whiles are out,
For grief and joy come time about.
And they that doubt may try, and see
Whether it's them that's right, or me.
But, if content stays here ava,
Ye'd think their chance was no that sma.

Now, should some critic snap and snarl
At this lang tale, without a moral;
Say, I've intruded on his time,
Wi' lengthened play o' doggerel rhyme,
I freely own, 'twas wrote for pleasin'—
This age is not for moralizin':
For this is law, says Vicar Bray,
To suit yoursel' to present day.