University of Virginia Library

Now Lords & Ladies, Knights & Gentlemen,
That have so roos'd the labours of my pen,
As well's ye lesser fouks that lent your lift,
An' keest into my lap your wellcome gift,
May a' the thanks a gratefu' heart can gee
Be your reward, and take them here from me.
For forth as soon's my blushing bookie went,
And that therefrae the Author boot be kent,
What fear an' dridder fluster'd i' my veins
There's nae flesh living but mysell that kens.
But when your friendly verdict anes came out,
That I was fidging fain, ye need na doubt.
Sonse fa' me, but my very heartstrings dirl'd
As blyth as his, that at het whisky birl'd;
Ilk new account that I had done sae well
Made a' my passions dance into a reel.
What needs me heal't? It's better to be plain
Than say that I about it was not fain,
For fain I was, and e'en it cost me pains
To keep in rander my ambitious veins.
That storm, I own, is in great measure past,
And now my pulses do not brawl sae fast.
Yet many a time I find a glad'ning twang
Wi' a broad-side out-throw my bosome bang.
As well's I can, I strive to keep them in,
An' still am feezing down the saucy pin;
But poets may be vain, auld Allan says't;
So I maun thole wi' others to be prais't.

Happy, thrice happy has my Nory been,
And mony a bony fairly has she seen;
An' has her place, nae doubt, in closets fine,
Where goud and turkey wi' sweet mixture shine;
In noble bosoms aftimes ta'en her nap,
Or saftly lien upon my Ladie's Lap,
Parting the happy spot 'twixt her and Poll,
And even lien beside him, cheek for joll.

O gin I knew what way I could reward
This public mark of unforsair'd regard,
How to the task would I myself address,
And a' the Muses flatter for success!
Wou'd Scota, wou'd kind Scota but anes mair
(That to my sleeping Nory led the Squire)
Lend me a lift, as well I ken she can,
My neist essay should make A Happy Man;
A Fortunate Shepherd next should be my theme,
Wou'd she but cast me in a driv'ling dream.

Well, Scota, wale of Muses! must I now
Anes mair begin and make my court to you?
Well are ye worth what homage I can gee,
For kind ye've been, an' mair nor kind to me.
Lend but your lug this anes, and if ye sud
Denzie yoursell to mine to gee a thud,
I care no by tho' I oblige mysell
Hyne never mair question whare ye dwell.
Attour the Muses that have lang been nine
Shall now be ten, & ye the foremost shine.
What wad ye mair? Auld Allan never bade
You sick a bode, altho' your dauted lad.
Gryte is the heeze ye've geen unto my fame,
And 'mong the poets registr'd my name.
Hence lang, perhaps, lang hence may cotted be
My auld proverbs well lined wi' blythsome glee:
As when the jampher i' my former tale
O'ertook a cabbrach knibblack with his heel,
And headlins stoited o'er into the moss;
Some reader then may say, “Fair fa' thee, Ross!”
When ablins I'll be lang, lang dead an' gane,
An' few remember there was sick a ane.
That's something, sirs, but few 'cept poets wou'd
Confes't indeed to be a real good.
But well fell them, poor fouk, for they can fare
How snug with the cameleon on the air!
It's nae the prospect of uncertain gain,
(At least wi' me) that makes them half so vain,
But the fain kitling of a canty thought,
By some kind Muse into their bosoms wrought.
That claws their back, hence springs their purest glee;
Then Fame suggests, “This is a chance for me.”
For when baith sense and ryme together meet,
The happy writer has a feast compleat.
'Tis true, when a poor penny comes at last,
The empty pouch admits the canny cast,
Come to relieve a long poetic fast.

Now honest Scota, wi' my seelfu' sports
I hope I have no gar'd you take the dorts;
Nor have misca'd your leed, but done my best
To make appear our language wants not taste.
Sae yet anes mair blaw throw my chattr'd reed,
For now if ever is my time of need.
When last my pen ye favour'd with a puff,
I ran no likely risk of speaking buff,
Because before me there was widely spread
All nature's stores in their pure artless bed;
Where at my wiss I might gae throw and cull,
Gae by the warst, and up the fairest pull.
But I that field have rang'd, nor maun again,
Where I before had done't, set down my pen.
O help me, Scota! here's a pinching strait;
For you can only bauk this threat'ning fate:
If I be found to copie o'er mysell,
“That's Flaviana o'er again,” they'll tell.
So let me not my readers disappoint,
Nor tell an idle story out of joint.
Her answer was: “Syn ye hae doon sae well,
I'll help you yet to shape another tale;
Perconon that ye by your text abide,
And take pure nature for your trusty guide;
And use my leed, as ye did i' the last;
Sae doing, ye may get a canny cast.”
O might I yet anes mair your pulses try,
And of your roosing prove the verity!
If but a pig ye've got into your pock,
You'll ablins say, “Again he shall na mock;”
And ablins some wha do not mind their pence
Are easie, tho' they have not given't for sense.

Lang syne, in troublesome times, in Cromwell's days,
When weers and mister had harash'd the braes,
When gryte an' sma', wi' pinching want opprest,
Were forc'd to seek their bit where they coud best;
When housholds haill took a' the gate at anes,
And where there were na mair, set out them lanes;
And sick as had gar'd fouk bareheaded stand
Stood now at poorer doors wi' cap in hand;
'Mang sick's were forc'd to this mishap to bow,
Young Kenneth's case I here present to you.
A blooming boy was he, roundfac'd and fair,
And like the threeds of goud his yellow hair;
Stout limbs and round, an' firm as ony tree
Were his, an' of a' seeming eelist free;
No linen kind had ever toucht his skin,
As few thir days had can that claith to spin;
A linder coorse, cut out of hodin gray
Neist to his skin as white's the paper lay;
A blanket of the same his shouders clad,
A spacious brutch before its fastning made;
On shoon or hose for him was wair'd no cost,
To save his youthfu' limbs from snow or frost,
Thro' which with all indifference he wade,
Nor of his rode the least distinction made.
'Twixt five and six his eeld then seem'd to be,
His leed black Earse, his carriage bald & free.
Him from some island or far northern nook
Alang wi' her some beggar woman took.
Far had they gane thro' mony a wilsom glen,
And aft been forc'd to quarter in a den,
Sair spent wi' faut, with hardly pith to stand,
When they fell in at last on Murray land.
Want there had not got leave to show his face,
And bread was to be had in ilka place.
Upon some gentle Place the wand'ring twa,
Baith weet and weary, on a night did fa'.
Well were they sair'd in meal & lodging there,
And got what they coud eat of halesome fare.
Young Kenneth now, to weakning fastings us'd,
Unto his hurt his present wealth abus'd;
Grew sick upon't, & almost swarft awa'.
His guide took fright, & did for caurance ca'.
The lady kind some halesome things apply'd,
So that untill he caur'd, wi' her he stay'd.
His wyllie guide thinks this a canny cast.
Ae morning up she gets, and aff she past;
And leaves young Kenneth horn-hard asleep,
Weening the lady wou'd the Orphan keep.
And well she guess'd. Soon he regains his heal,
And gets what he cou'd take of milk & meal.
Few days anes past, he never minds his guide,
But peaceably doth at the Place abide.
Some couch within the kitchin nook he got,
And never dreamt the changing of his lot;
Stumps out and in with quite indiff'rent air,
Baith happy in his pastime and his fare.
His guide herself unto her chance betakes,
Yet of her pett her observation makes,
But so as never to approach the Place,
Or look the house or orphan in the face;
Lest she thereby meith change the happy lot
That Kenneth by his coming there had got.
Yet in the country still she made her round,
But in her circle never touched the town;
Content to learn her little pett was there,
And that he was so happy in his fare.
By now my man is frank and hearty grown,
And travels out and in about the town;
And by degrees begins the leed to learn,
And very soon becomes a household bairn.
The lady finds, by Mashley's morning trip,
That she had meant to gee the boy the slip
And leave him there, perswaded well that they
Wou'd never put him frae the town away.
And so it fared, he grows a common pett,
And a' the house is for his wellfare sett.
New claise he got, was sair'd wi' hose and shoon;
Of these right fain he rambles up an' down.
At last, whan he had been a towmont there,
He's set to go about with the young squire,
That by a year or twa had shorter eeld,
But was by nature a camstery chield;
And mony a pingel fell atweesh the twa,
An' aft young master's back did Kenneth cla';
Knew na distinction 'twixt himsell an' nane
Of Adam's race that day that yeed on bane;
Was frae the town at last like to be driven,
To monky-tricks he was sae oddly given.
But as he looked ay so brisk and crouse,
He's favour'd by the gentles o' the house;
But 'boon them a' young Henny height by name
Pled the importance of her last night's dream,
Quhilk was: their castle just was like to fa',
And Kenneth with a largue sustain'd it a';
Sae it were best he 'bout the house should bide,
An' be at hand whatever meith betide.
“His bit an' baid,” adds she, “will ne'er be mist,
And fouk, they say, that help the poor are blest.”
“Well,” says the lady, “Henny, that may be.
But he an' Rory never will agree.
He is not couthy, neither is he kind;
Nor minds him mair than tho' he were not mine.
That cools my heart unto the billy sair,
And I hae frae him ta'en aback my care.
But since o' him ye seem to hae conceit,
That he get here his bit I sanna let;
But let the shepherd take him ilka day
Unto the hill, there let him herd or play.
In course of time he may the herding learn,
And to the house become a usefu' bairn.
For since he's fa'en here, we'll be to blame
Gin we his mind do not to something frame.
Dick maun be tell'd to learn the spark to read,
An' to a sober carriage strive to breed.
For as he is an honest chield himsell,
He'll be the fitter unto him to tell;
An' as he can about but hardly creep,
An' scarcely watch ilk corner of the sheep,
His travel he can Kenneth gar had in,
Till he to ken the trade himsell begin;
And ablins when auld Dick gees o'er the post
The youth himsell may can to rule the rost.
To cauld an' hunger well has he been bred,
Whilk i' this case may stand in meikle stead.
Sae, if the shepherd him shall rightly frame,
'Tmay come to prove the reading o' your dream.
For aftentimes the right increase of store
Has fashen fouk again just frae the door.”
But litle ken'd the lady Cupid had
His monky-tricks upon her daughter plaid.
As litle kent hersell that it was love
That did for Kenneth sae her pity move;
Sae saft, sae deep, sae sleeketly the dart
Was witter'd i' the bottom o' her heart.
Poor honest youngling, only gaing her nine,
Ne'er dream'd she was in love 'cause she was kind.
But whether love or kindness was the sort,
She loot it out & never stroove to smor't.
Neist morning Dick is fashen to the Ha',
An' bidden take the youth to help to ca',
An' gar him turn as he should chance to need,
An' to the herding-trade exactly breed;
Frae his ill laits to see to had him in,
And to a sober course of life begin.
Young miss heard this, and as she did na ken
What 'twas about him that had made her sae fain,
Began to greet, an' said that she wad gae
Unto the hill, if Kenneth sud do sae.
For fa wi' her, she said, wad play at hame?
Beside, she dridder'd something 'bout her dream.
The lady, seeing the poor youngling's mind
Sae browden sett, & to the boy inclin'd,
And fearing Cupid might have try'd his art
Upon the thoughtless lassie's tender heart,
Resolv'd that she would crush it i' the bud,
Before it gather'd strength, as well's she coud.
But thinks that it wou'd be o'er kittle wark
Just all at anes to brake her frae the spark,
As kenning that her temper was na jest,
Nor coud endure a conter i' the least.
Sae she resolves piece-meal to wear't awa',
Nor to the head the nail at anes to ca'.
Then to the shepherd says: “Ye may no mird
Throw the out glens some days the sheep to hird;
But near the Place, upo' the sunny braes,
Ay row them in, at least a stound o' days;
An' gar young Kenneth ever run about
To hadd them in as they are starting out.”
Then says to Henny: “When ye hae read your book,
I'll lat you gang about the store to look,
An' play a while with Kenny o' the green,
Syne come again unto your seam bedeen.”
When some few days were in this manner spent,
And the young fondling was right well content,
The sheep again are order'd to the bent.
First day they're gane, young Henny at her hour
Unto the sunny braes straight makes her tour;
Looks round for herds and sheep, and missing them,
All in a roar she galloping comes hame.
The mother speers, What? had she got a fa'?
“Na, na,” she says, “but Kenny is awa'.
Ye've pitten him frae the town, right well I ken;
An' gryt's my fear he'll never come again.”
“Na, bairn,” she says, “the store are to the bent.
They'll come at e'en, sae had yoursell content.
Ye'll then see Ken. Ill something till his head!
For he has rais'd a bony steer indeed.
But I'm surpris'd that ye, a lady born,
To play 'mang beggar geets yoursell wad scorn.
For tho' I own 'tis well done that ye sud
Unto the poor do a' the good ye coud,
But as to you a better chance is given,
Unto yoursell ye them sud never even.
Wi' your ain sort you sud yoursell take up,
Nor denzie anes with them to bite or sup,
Or any ways be free, but let them ken
Nae day they rise, wi' you they can come ben.
For, Henny, ye are nae sae young a bairn
But ye by now to ken yoursell may learn.
For we that's gentle fouks for ever sud
Kinsprekle be for ilka thing that's good.
And when we to the poor folk's manners fa',
It looks as gin our ain were worn awa'.
But maist of a', young ladies sud tak care
They dinna fa' into this shamefu' snare.
For says the proverb, ‘Sick as ye wad be
Yoursells, to sick see that ye draw you too.’”
Shame now begins o'er Henny's face to spread;
Yet soberly she to her mother said:
“It may be true indeed that geets of kairds
May not come near to sick as come of lairds,
But Kenny's nane of thae, as far's we ken,
And ablins come of very honest men.
Want put him to the pock, with mony mae,
An' even gentles boot to beg, they say.
An' how ken we but Kenny's of that sort?
I'm sure his bony skin pleads stoutly for't.
He does not ban nor swear, but o! he's keen
At ony warpling game upo' the green.
Nae other bairns are here about but he,
'Cept Rory, and he's ay aur sair for me;
An' wert na Kenny, he wad be my dead,
Wi' mony a weary dird upo' the head;
But he ay takes my part, for Rory kens
That he's his master, and cou'd beat his beans.”
“But,” says the mother, “ye have a' the wyte,
An' that gars Rory aftimes bear the syte;
An' he's your brither, and ye sud tak care
He for your sake fall not into a snare.
Besides, ye're muckle grown, an' it's a shame
To see you tumbling o' the green wi' them.
Nae mair ye maun be geen to sickan pranks,
Or I assure you Ken maun tak his shanks.
Your book an' seam maun now tak up your hand,
An' sae ye maun sick comerads disband.
Your cousin Peg is now come frae the school;
I'll wad, like you she sanna play the fool.
I'll send for her, an' ye sall play thegither,
An' of companions ye sall need nae ither.
I'll wad that she sall not tak up wi' Ken,
Nor whare she is allow him to come ben.”
Now Henny gees it o'er to rink and range,
When Peggy comes, newfangle of the change.
Her glegly hears a' day, at night she dreams
About her cod, her bobbins, books an' seams.
But soon lost dinto of her sareless tales,
And still the langor for dear Ken prevails.
But shame had got the better o' her heart,
And she maun try to gain her ends by art:
Unto her mother saftly says: “We'll gae
To see the lambs come binn'ring down the brae.
To Cousin Peg 'twill bra diversion be,
That has na chance ilk day the like to see.”
The mother yields, nor Henny's cunning heeds,
Nor the intention of her question dreads.
Sae in an ev'ning fair the nymphs gang out,
And thro' the braes baith scamper round about.
At last the sheep in strings come frae the glen,
And in the reer young Henny spies her Ken
Whistling and dancing hame behind the store,
That spread amo' the bents by mony a score.
The sight o' him gar'd a' her heartstrings dreel,
An' she begins to sing, to dance and reel,
And round her cousin loup like ony lamb
That for a souk e'en to its minny came.
Peg is astonish'd at her suddain glee,
As she no proper ground thereof coud see,
An' to her says: “What ails thee, lassie? Tell!
For, troth, I think ye are beside yoursell.”
She never minds, but plays her merry pranks,
Till Kenny's now come past the benty banks,
And coming very near; then hadds her hand,
And leaving aff her sports, begins to stand.
Ken now by Dick's good care was grown right feat,
His head well kaim'd, his gartens ty'd full neat,
His face well washen, and frae head to foot
Was nae wrang prin, nor yet misus'd his coat;
In his ae hand he held his lesson book,
His ither held a trigg, well-whittl'd crook.
His snug appearance drew Peg's eyes aside,
An' “O! This is a bony hird,” she cry'd.
This claw'd young Henny's back, yet was na fain
That she sud sae commend him o'er again.
Yet she insists, an' says, Where had we gat
So trig, so tight a litle hird as that?
“Some years ago, when famine pincht the poor,”
Young Henny says, “he just came to the door,
Led by some beggar wife, that slipt her wa'
When on his feet she saw the billy fa'.
Lang time with us he travell'd out an' in,
Till he to strive with Rory does begin.
My mother then gars take him to the glen,
That he frae Dick the herding trade may ken.
Now Dick's a dainty couthie bodie there,
An' has of Kenny ta'en an unko care;
Lears him to read an' featly wyre his claise,
To kaim his head & sicklike things as these.
An' gin he likes, can lear him too to write,
An' in a thousand other things perfite;
For he's among our formest scholars here,
An' a' the parson's questions has perqueer.”
As true's she said, young Kenny gae his ear
To ilka thing that honest Dick coud lear.
Nae duns he was, for he had heart an' sprite,
An' in short time turn'd out a lad compleat.
An' tho' he Henny with his heart did like,
Yet did no offer unto her to speak.
Shame now wi' Dick's injunctions witly join'd
Had pow'r to stem the ardor o' his mind.
And Peg's gleg glowr, just like to look him thro',
Nae litle helpt his bashfu'ness to grow.
But yet the lyth about his heart that lay
By some sma inklings shaw'd itsell that day.
For to the lambs while Pegy gees a look,
In Kenny's hand Hen snatches at the book,
And with a smiling smurtle ca'd it bra;
Baith quat the grip, and loot the bookie fa';
As fast baith lout to tak it up, but Ken
Mistook the glamp, an' left the book to Hen.
She takes it up, an' turns it o'er & o'er,
An' at trig Kenny lets the other glowr.
At last she says: “Ye dinna now come hame—”
Nor was she able mair to say for shame.
Ken says: “I'm not at my ain freedome now;
Nor think I lang for anything but you.
For Dick gees lessons to me ilka day,
An' I my questions now right well can say.
I scour the hills, the howms, the glens with care,
An' mony a bony burn and strype is there;
Bra lang green haughs by ilka burn & strype,
An' hazel-nute heughs, an' hawthorne berries rype;
Here in thick spots the ripe blae-berries grow,
The bralans there like very scarlet glow;
An' were ye there, the bliss wad be compleat,
An' ilka toil an' trouble wad be sweet.
But as it is, I maun mysell content,
To help to herd the gueeds upo' the bent.
For Dick's now stiff an' auld, an' gars me rin
An' had insides a'maist frae sin to sin.
An' tho' he be baith kind an' mair nor kind—
Lears me to read, an' sometimes write a line—
With the laird's bairns he me forbids to mird,
An' tells for that that I was sent to hird.
It's true indeed I dinna grudge the trade,
An' thinks that I had for the same been made.
We get our meal frae Lucky i' the glen,
That lives fu' snuggly wi' a butt an' ben;
Wi' earthen sunks a' round about the wa',
An' heather beds a' sett on end and bra.
She milks the ewes an' tents the same wi' care,
An' mony times gees me a hindbacks share.
I want for nought, 'cept that I see na you;
That's a' my want, an' I maun bear it now.
Anes ev'ry ouk we lat the gueeds wear down
To pike the braes just up aboon the town.
Coud you get leave that time your walk to take,
'Twou'd do me gueed, altho' we sud na speak.”
“Gin I can win,” says Henny, “dinna fear
But I mysell sud straiten to be there.
For I'm as fain of you, an' wad be glade
That ilk a day a sight of you I had.”
Just as they're thrang, wha louping comes but Peg?
An' Henny wisht, nae doubt, she'd broke her leg;
For she o'erheard part o' their serious crack,
And Henny fear'd that she wad prove her wrack.
For Peg was cunning, and the other fear'd
That she wad tell her mother what she heard.
Nor was poor Henny in her guesses wrang,
For clatt'ring Peg soon blabbed out their thrang.
The wyllie lady did na seem to mind,
Nor challeng'd Henny for her being kind;
And says it was no wonder, for that they
At hame had plaid together many a day;
That it nae fairly was, that they were fain
To crack together when they met again.
This laid Peg's tongue, & help't to hush the din
That by her clatter threaten'd to begin.
But still an eye the lady keeps on Hen,
And at her scoold, whene'er she spak of Ken;
Spake very slightly of the servant's state,
And swell'd the odds betwixt them & the great,
And said that gentles were for gentles made,
And servants but to servile stations bred;
Nae mair with them that gentles had to do
But take their wark, or at them skaul the brow
Whene'er they sloth'd their task, & let them ken
That they maun byde their butt, an' they their ben;
But says: “When we speak o' them, we maun ken
Tho' they be servants, yet that they are men.
We must na wrang them, but their wages pay,
And mind they bear the toil an' heat of day;
When we, whose luck is to abide within,
Do feed upon what they do work an' win.
An' since to us that providence is kind,
Wha works it for us we sud keep in mind;
But ay keep up the diff'rence heav'n has made,
Nor make them partners at our boord or bed.”
Henny, by now grown up in wyles an' years,
Right paukily her mother's lessons hears,
And says: “My bookie tells another tale,
And what's in print can surely never fail:
‘When Adam carded and when Eva span,
Inform me where were a' the gentles than.’”
“That's true, my bairn,” her mother saftly said;
“Fouk then were few, but after that they spread;
Some o' them rich, an' some o' them were poor,
The stronger sought the weaker to devour.
Some o' them wysse, and some o' them were fools,
An' to the strong the weaker were made tools.
Ilk ane was like another to o'ergang,
Nor was there way of righting o' their wrang.
So full was a' their way of cracks & flaws,
That they were forc'd to make what we call laws.
The wiser made them, & the rest obey'd,
Or if they fail'd, their skins were soundly paid.
Frae this, distinction 'mangst fouk began,
An' gear was paid unto the wisest man.
Of sick, when fouk began to widely spread,
Ilk tribe chese one, an' him their leader made.
Sae by degrees there grew baith great and sma,
An' all was held in order by the law.
The law forbade the great to wrang the poor,
Or it wad make the best o' them to stour.
Thus when of law ilk ane saw the intent,
All studied with their state to be content.
Sick as had wealth an' witt were counted great,
The poorest sort were of the other state.
But mony times amo' the poor were found
Some wyllie heads that did with witt abound.
Sick for their witt were parted frae their race,
An' 'mang the better sort obtain'd a place.
This gate at first the gentles gat their name,
And gin they blot it, grytly are to blame.”
“How blot it, mother? As I blott my book?
Or the hill-moss in spate defiles our brook?”
“Just sae, my bairn, the simile will hadd,
An' that you've anter'd on't I'm unko glad.
Your copie's clean ere ye lat fa' a blott,
But anes it fa'es, then ye hae slipt a knott.
Scraip what you like, it never sall be clean,
Nor be the thing again that it has been.
Sicklike, when gentles fa' in a mistake,
Or in their curpin sud there prove a crack,
That sair, wi' a' our art, will never heal,
But ay at ilka sae lang brake an' beal.
Sae we had best ay keep among our rank,
Lest for our name we only hae a blank.”
“But mother,” says she, “since ye do allow
Ane may be gotten 'mang the vulgar crew
That may be meet to fit a gentle place,
As weel for wit an' havins as for face,
When sick we chuse, we sud na be condemn'd,
Nor yet, as if we'd wrang'd our fame, be blam'd.”
“Ay, Henny, sick are only speckle birds,
An' aften times mista'en by giglet flirds
That eye vain fellows for their airy dress,
And on appearances lay a' their stress.”
“And gentles ay,” says Henny, “are not good,
Tho' they by blood may differ frae the crowd.
An' as unhappy we meith be with them
As with the crowd, that sett not up for fame.”
“That may be too,” her mother says, “but yet
They're less to wyte that hadd the even gate.
Wi' ane frae 'mang the crowd get we a byte,
Nane pities us, we hae oursells to wyte.
But if we're wrang, when we our equal take,
They hae na shame to bind upon our back.”
Whatever Henny thought, she said nae mair,
But as well sa she coud she smor'd her care.
But still a hanker had her Ken to see,
Albeit she own'd him under her degree.
'Twas love, not marriage, ran into her mind;
She sought, she meant no more but to be kind.
Sae stack trig Kenny's shape within her breast,
That ilka thought about him was a feast.
Now when this pair were come unto that pass
As to be raxed out to lad an' lass,
An' she a fair an' statly lady grown,
An' woo'rs dingdang frequenting now the town;
Tho' to their profers she gae nae consent,
Altho' they a' were come of high descent;
Yet 'mangst her suiters there keest up at last
A gallant squire of freely gentle cast,
Of sweet address, an' skill'd in courting art,
That well coud ettle Cupid's winning dart;
Sae frush, sae frank, that she coud scarce gainsay,
An' fouk were speaking o' her wedding day.
The news brake out, an' flew unto the glen,
An' pat an unko stammagast to Ken,
Who thinks: “I now maun try my utmost art
To see if I have room in Henny's heart.”
An' as frae Dick he learnt had to write,
He then sits down, an' to her thus can dite:
“Dear Mrs Henny, dowy is the knell
Has hit my ears, worse than a burial bell:
You're to be married now, I hear, on haste,
An' I'm quite banish'd frae your bony breast.
I'm nae your maik, I ken, but yet I thought
Ye wad na yield at first, piece ye were sought.
Bade ye unmarri'd, it some hopes wad gee,
An' frae the warst of fates preserve poor me.
But sud the dreary tidings whilk I fear,
That ye are gane, but ring upo' mine ear,
Then the first news sud blaw down frae the glen
Wad be the death of poor unhappy Ken,
That loo'd, it seems, what was not safe to do,
An' yet, it seems, maun die of love for you.”
This he folds up the best way that he mought,
And to his trusty Lucky saftly brought;
And says: “When ye gae down unto the Place—
Altho' ye need no be upon a chase—
But when ye gang, ye'll this bit paper gee
To Mrs Hen, but let no body see.”
The wyllie wife, nae doubt that smell'd a rat,
A proper season for her errand wat;
Yeed aff to get a new supply of meal,
Or sicklike things the lady us'd to deal,
Baith for her ain an' Ken the shepherd's buird,
That ay to them the fam'ly did afford.
When she comes there, the town is in a thrang,
An' gentles gaing out and in ding-dang.
Bess nicks her chance, to Henny's chamber trips,
An' fast into her hand the paper slips;
Then gaes her wa, an' waits about the Place
For things to which she well cud had her face.
When Bess yeed out, then Henny clos'd her door,
An' read her Kenny's letter o'er an' o'er.
She read and grat, said till hersell, “Wae's me
That Kenny sae in pain for me sud be!
How sad's my heart, that likes him like my life,
Yet have no hope to ever be his wife!
This waefu' chance of gentle blood, foul fa't!—
I wat I canna sair enough misca't—
Stands i' the gate. I maunna quyte my rank,
Or I among my kin be but a blank.
My parents, I confess, maun be obey'd,
Tho' I hae nature's right upo' my side.
To marry gentles none can me compell;
Yet sure I am they cannot force mysell
To marry 'gainst mysell, tho' I confess
My will they may keep frae me ne'r the less.”
Nail'd down by the bewitching pow'r of love
Some time she sat, nor had she pow'r to move.
At last she reads her letter o'er again,
Then up, an' looks for paper, ink and pen.
And now at last her first love letter writes,
And love himsell the pleasing subject dites;
An' sae begins: “Alas! my honest Ken,
For me first banish'd to the wilsome glen;
An' now, wae's me! thro' the mistake of fame,
Made to believe I've quite forgot your name.
That's nae the case, dear Ken. My parents may
Prevent of you and me the happy day,
And I believe they shall; but mortal man
From loving of you ne'er prevent me can.
That is a thing I think within my pow'r,
Tho' I sud never get my paramour;
No man of me sall ever get consent,
Altho' the getting you they may prevent.
Love on, and sae sall I, an' never fear
You'll of my marriage with another hear.
Love wou'd, but time forbids me to say mair.
So live at ease, and dinna foster care.”
This she falds up, an' waits a canny kyle;
Gees't unto Bess, wi' something and a smile.
Bess takes't, an' hameward makes unto the glen,
An' at the sheal, wha meets her there but Ken?
The note she gees him fast, but naething said.
Unto a bield as fast the shepherd sled;
An' read, an' kist, an' grat, an' read again,
An' says: “My blessing o' my bonny Hen,
That's been sae good as write to me this line!
Indeed, dear Mrs Hen, it's mair nor kind.
An' will ye for my sake not marry nane?
Nor I, atweel, except yoursell alane.”
And to himsell he farther gladly says:
“An' wad she chuse a shepherd frae the braes,
An' leave the gentlemen of hy renown
I hear are daily flocking to the town?
God's blessing light upon her face, an' mine!
As far's I can, upon't she sall na tyne.
Sick kindness on the likes of me's ill wair'd.
But for her sake, o gin I were a laird!
Had I my thousands coming in, yet nane
Wad I think wordy o't but her alane.
That's easie said, she unto me meith say,
As sick a chance I'm never like to hae.
But I'll do more: sall never woman kind
Except hersell, get harb'ry in my mind.
Tho' I sud live till me a midge sud fell,
This to the world I'm vowable to tell.”
Thus happy, thus resolv'd, the shephered gaes
And tents his thriving flock upon the braes.
For Dick's now dead a towmont an' a day,
An' at whase death young Kenneth was right wae;
For he had been the best sight e'er he saw,
An' miss'd him sair, now whan he was awa'.
Before, he had him 'tweesh him an' the wind,
When any faults the laird or lady found.
But now the charge lies a' upon himsell,
An' to tell truth, he mannag'd it fu' well.
Well throove the flock, an' well increas'd the store,
An' ev'ry year grew mair by many a score.
And with his laird he did at last engage
To have a lamb of twenty for his wage;
Half wedder, and half ew, he gat his wyle,
An' he grew rich within a litle while.
Soon ev'ry year he had a cast to sell,
An' laid up siller mair nor tongue can tell.
The happy herd now brooks an easy mind,
'Cause to her shepherd Henny proves so kind;
Takes out his chanter on the sunny braes,
An' gars the rocks rebound his mirthfu' lays;
Nae music in his ears like Henny rings,
And unto very nathings sings down kings;
While Henny's ay the burthen o' his sang,
And ever keeps his mind frae thinking lang.
Weet, cald, and jurging feet he never minds,
Snow, sleet, slush, frost, green grow, or piping winds,
A' weather's just alike upo' the bent,
An' how the warld gaes, he's ay content.
As lang's he thinks his Henny is his ain,
Naething can gae against him o' the plain.
But fickle fortune is not ay the same;
She pleasure takes to play her tott'ring game.
Poor honest Kenneth now maun tidings hear
That louder knell than thunder on his ear.
His mirth was marr'd by a mischancy cast,
When he had thought it wou'd for ever last:
Ae day young Rory, now too grown a man,
Into his sister's chamber rambling ran.
She's reading at a paper, an' what's this,
Think ye, but Kenneth's line to her, alas!
Nae ill was in his mind, but yet a claught
At it he loot, an' frae her fingers caught.
Poor Henny at it loot a hasty glamp,
An' roov't in twa, as it was weak an' damp.
Aff he scours wi' his ha'f, but will-a-day!
E'en that same ha'f o'er muckle had to say.
It had to say—what needs there ony mair?—
What brake her peace, an' bred her muckle care.
Aff to his mother he the paper bears,
And leaves poor Henny bludder'd o'er wi' tears;
And says: “What think ye have I gotten now?
'Tis nae for noth that Henny winna woo.
She's other ways ta'en up—look, read ye here;
Her bony spark's nae o' the wale of gear.
Ken's thrang an' hers ye'll find's nae done awa',
Tho' frae the town ye him forherded ca'.”
The mother said what for the time was best,
An' unto silence rattling Rory prest;
Said she that matter mannage wad hersell,
And pray'd he meith it not to others tell.
But as the proverb says, what we forbid
Is what, we may resolve, will not be hid.
An' sae it far'd wi' this. Rash Rory's tongue
Soon blabbed a' that story out ere lang.
The dowy news even unto Kenny flew,
An' dreary damps o'er all his comforts drew.
What shall he do? He's driv'n to dark dispair;
His breast he bett, an' roove out at his hair.
His chanter he with indignation takes,
An' in a fit all into pieces breakes—
His chanter, that upon the sunny braes
Had plaid him many sweet & mirthful lays.
His crook against a rugged rock he drew,
Till far and wide it into splinters flew.
Then sat he down beneath this birn of wae,
An' dool'd an' mourn'd, an' thus can sadly say:
“An' can the warld now our secret tell?
My heart before got never sick a knell.
How will they guide my bonny Henny now?
Her peace is gane as well as mine, I trow.
For me, I dinna care tho' I were dead,
Nor ever frae this hillock rais'd my head;
But for poor her, my heart is like to bleed
I cannot help her at this time of need.
O all ye pow'rs that pity honest love,
To pity her her angry mother move!
She'll neither be, I ken, to had nor bind,
But wi' her tongue misuse her out an' in.
Support poor Henny in her suff'ring hour,
An' some kind comfort in her bosome pour!
O gee her patience, help her now to bear
This sad, this dowy, weighty birn of care!
May a' my patience, a' my pity be
This day, dear Henny, helpful unto thee!
I dinna farther crave your honest love,
But biddable unto your parents prove;
Take some young gentle, an' good mat he be!
And think nae mair, my bonny Hen, on me.
For me, I soon sall take a rackless race,
An' gae where I had never kend a face;
An' sall be happy, cou'd I anes but ken
That ye are free frae care, my lovely Hen.
But yet some glimpse of hope blinks in my breast:
Your mother anes will hear you, at the least.
Tell her, if ever love was worth the name,
Sure yours an' mine deserves the least of blame;
When nae wrang thoughts coud in our bosoms be,
My heart was fixt on you an' yours on me.
How it began sure nane of us can tell.
So then to you she never can be fell.
My honest tutor Dick, 'tis very true,
Tauld me with gentles I had nought to do.
But what ken I of that distinction? When
Love linked us together with his chain,
And when it once was fixed in our heart,
And we baith happy with the tender smart,
As little cud we then forbear to love
As we coud lett it, at the first, to move.
I think I'm even speaking unto you,
And yet I ken ye dinna hear me now;
But if you did, I wot that yet once more
Our hearts wad be as warm's they were before.
But why sud I upon this subject dwell?
It is but heaping sorrow on mysell.
For while I think that ye your sorrow dree,
No peace on earth can ever be to me.
But gang I maun awa', 'cause for your sake
I dread your foulks will seek my life to take.
An' that, I ken, wad be mair pain to you,
Sae that 'tis better I prevent it now.
But whan I'm gane, my heart will still remain.
O gin it could but ease you o' your pain!
Wi' pleasure I the warld wide wad range,
Tho' ilka day I sud my quarters change.
If I have any love of life, 'twill be
To think you're sometime thinking upon me.
This I in write shall leave with honest Bess,
To succour you beneath your sad distress.
But ere it comes, I surely will be gane,
So after it you are to look for nane.
Not but my will is good, but canna see
How word to you coud mair transported be.
Farewell, dear Mrs Henny, lang farewell!
If ever we shall meet no tongue can tell.”

An' now poor Ken is on his travels keen.
But first he ranks his herdshal o' the green;
Counts ev'ry soul, and tightly sets them down,
That all in ane made out a number round.
To keep them right wi' might an' main he stroove,
An' wond'rously beneath his hand they throove.
Then says to Bess: “The morn I gang awa',
An' a' my ain poor beasts maun wi' me ca',
Where I can best I will of them dispose,
Tho' I the hauf sud on the other lose.
Neist day, whan I am gane, ye will gae down,
An' this bit note ye'll carry to the town;
Gee to the lady, this will lat her ken
Her ilka sort o' sheep into the glen.
Tho' I to herd them never sud come back,
At my poor hand she sanna tyne a plack.
Four ewes, good honest Bess, I've left to you;
In a short time they may be worth a cow.
This letter, too, you'll to Miss Henny gee—
The last, I reed, she'll ever get frae me.
But upon haste wi' it ye needna be.
Well mat ye thram! For happy I hae been
These many summers now upon the green.”
At this Bess' heart is like to brake in twa;
An' says: “Wae's me! an' are ye gaing awa'?
Well maat ye gang, an' may ye ever hae
Your friends before you ilka gate ye gae!
But yet, o Kenny! I would think your case
Not hauf so ill's it looks you i' the face.
Ye yet meith bide some days, untill ye see
Gin laird or lady at you angry be.
'Twill soon be kend, an' gin I chance to hear
Afore yoursell, I'll tell, ye needna fear.
Nae doubt, they'll Mistris Henny's pulses try,
An' gin to them she ilka thing deny,
They'll likelylike lie dark, for afttimes we
Things latten alane to dwindle to naething see.
Attour they hae her ever i' their pow'r,
Nor frae their sight can she be hauf an hour.
Sae what hae they to fear? The worst that they
'Bout a' your cushelmushel hae to say,
That ilk to ilk a lasting favour had,
But canna tell how at the first it bred.
That now the dinn o' it wad soon dill down,
An' but a story at the last be found.”
“That's easie said,” says Ken, “but yet when I
Beneath the sad an' heavy birthen ly,
'Tis quite another story, for naething me—
—But taking of my heels—from it can free.
That's my design, sae arguments are vain,
An' that I maun gang aff as light is plain.”

Now Ken had grown conceity in his claise,
Nor coud the common country fashion please,
But something by the by 't boot be his hue:
Fine colour, red, sea-green an' double blue,
Wi' skyring lumbs thro' a trig tartan ran
Of his ain wool, that honest Bessy span.
A good clashbardy, too, he boot to hae;
A durk, a pistol, an' sick things as thae;
A steethed belt, wi' brasen knaps as thick
As ane coud just beside the other stick.
All these, when on, did on the other clash,
And baith at kirk and market keest a dash.
A tight four quarters to the boot was he,
His maik ye hardly ony gate cud see.
Sae drest and feat he was ae bony morn,
An' from a hillock blew his touting horn;
Conven'd his flock, an' left them o' the plain,
An' then before him ca'd awa' his ain,
But just's he stood, he naething took awa',
An' a' the rest loot wi' auld Bessy fa',
Wha mony a blessing pray'd, an' wiss'd that he
Might be a laird, afore that he sud die.
When he is gane & gone, then honest Bess
With the note left her, traddles to the Place;
An' as good Ken had geen her in command,
Right dowielike slips't i' the ladie's hand.
“An' what means this?” to her the lady says.
“Your sheep's account,” quo Bess, “upo' the braes.”
“I see it is,” she says, “and it's nae sma.
But what need was there sick account to shaw?”
Bess answer maks: “Alas! poor Kenny's gane,
An' his ain beasts along wi' him has ta'en.
For him I fear anither herd ye'll need,
For he'll come never back again, I read.”
“Gae he nae reason for this hasty step?”
“Nane that I ken, except the country claip,”
Said Bess, “'bout Mrs Henny an' himsell.
Nor gin that be the thing I canna tell.
Ae thing, I'm sure, to a' that kent him's kent:
No better lad e'er herded o' the bent.”
“That he was sae I canna well deny,
But wiss, whan he came in, he had gane by.
Poor Henny for him had some liking ta'en;
But now I hope 'twill fa', as he is gane.
Left he with you for her nae new commands?
I doubt their messages came thro' your hands.”
“Since Mrs Henny's scash wi' the young laird,
I fear that he frae sick commands was skair'd.
Nae hopes has now, whatever he may have had,
He ever sud be partner o' her bed.
I heard him say, howe'er wi' him it fair'd,
He wisst that she were marry'd wi' a laird.
An' I think haleumly he's ta'en the road
That in her gate he may not be a clod.
He'll push his fortune, unko faces may
Frae out his mind sick fancies wear away.
Sweet Mrs Henny'll join some gentle hand—
Well is she worth the foremost o' the land.”
An' tho' poor Henny's yet into the mist,
Nor that her lad was aff an' left her, wist;
Yet she wi' grief was hard enough bestead,
Frae anes she fund that their intrigue was spread.
'Tis true her mother yet kept on her mask,
Nor for the story had her ta'en to task;
Yet ilka minute she expects the worst,
An' is wi' neaty grief just like to burst.
In this sad plight whan eight lang days are gane,
Than which mair dowy she had never nane,
Her mother says: “What is the matter now,
That sorrow sains sae runkles o' your brow?
If't be for Ken, 'tis time to lay't aside,
When to a laird ye soon can be a bride.
For him, he's aff baith bag and baggage gaen,
An' left his herdshal on the plain alane.
Ne'er mind him mair, he's casten his heels at you,
Sae ye at him the like may safely do,
E'en put the case he meith your equal be;
An' as he's not, ye're mair nor doubly free.”

“Gane! gane! an' is he gane? Then joy be wi'm!
He has my heart, tho' I sud never see him,
Nor likely will I,” Henny sobbing says.
“Aff now is gane the pow of a' the braes.
But since ill fortune does our persons part,
She has nae pow'r, I hope, upon our heart.
In spite of fate, I'll like him till I die,
An' I'm persuaded he thinks sae to me.
It is a virtue, surely, to be true,
However mean it may appear to you.
You may indeed cast meanness up to me,
That coud wi' ane beneath my rank be free;
But at that time no odds of rank I knew,
And gin I ony blame, it sud be you,
Wi' sick that loot me pass my early time,
An' now finds faut, as gin the wyte was mine.
But letting you be right, an' me be wrang,
When with poor barefoot Kenneth I grew thrang,
Afore I wist gin I the like sud do,
I dare na say that I repent it now.
But tho', dear mother, I be thus inclin'd.
It comes not frae nae stubbornness of mind.
I ken that I my parents sud obey,
An' without asking questions comply,
In things within my pow'r; but gin aboon't,
I'm nae to blame altho' I hae not done't.
For I nae mair can cease of Ken to think
Than my eye-lids can now forbear to wink.
So let the braest, gentlest wooer come,
Within my heart for him there is nae room.
Ken has possest it a', an' let him hae't,
An' binna angry at me when I say't.
I hae nae hopes I'll ever be his wife,
But I'll contented lead a single life.
On you nor me this winna fix a stain,
An' I'll for ane frae a' mankind refrain.”
Her mother says: “I'll, Henny, let you be.
'Tis time alane that can your bosome free.
You'll quyte your chamber, & converse wi' fouk,
Or they'll had out ye're grown a sensless gouk;
Keep company, and let na them conclude
Your father's herd sud ever you delude.
Sae let me see that ye my bidding do,
An' skail the clouds that's gather'd o' your brow.
Good company unto this house resorts,
That can divert you wi' their harmless sports.
An' nane but sick, you ken, are welcome here,
An' for yoursell are ever fier for fier.
To gentle havins sick are ever bred,
An' frae a' country clownish fessons freed.
An' as I said afore, sae say I now—
Sick are the only company for you.
Good books ye hae, an' sall, as aft's ye need;
On them ye may at proper seasons read.
But not the books for the daft stage design'd;
Sick rather poison than instruct the mind.
Young fouks but now o'er mony read o' thae,
Whilk to their virtue aften proves a fae.
We'll send for Cousin Peg. She has the art
A melancholly body to revert.
Wi' her, my child, ye can be frank an' free;
An' she, ye ken, a gueed advice can gee;
Wi' her ye can or work or read or play,
An' please yoursells the live-lang summer's day;
Nane dare to say 'tis ill done that ye do.
Sae ken yoursell, an' do my bidding now,
An' in a clap ye's hae a new silk gown,
Piece I for it sud send to London-town.
Nae thing ye's want that can be gueed or bra,
If ye frae country thoughts an' fessons fa'.
Some mithers on you wad hae fa'en right foul,
An' never looked o' you butt a scoul;
But I that kens that Kenny's thrang & yours
Grew when ye cud do nought but gather flours,
With pity treat you, hoping reason shall
You from this foolish childish thought recall.
Sae brisk you up, wi' pains prin on youre claise,
That fouk may think your mind is now at ease.
Wi' company be couthy, frank an' free,
An' take a harmless share of cheefu' glee.
An' when young gentlemen comes to the town,
Be sure ye trig yoursell i' your best gown.
I'm far frae bidding you gae daft or light,
But nae to gae mair hobby than ye might.
When ye get offers made you by the men,
Gee civil talk, nor treat then wi' disdain.
'Twill gee fouk wordy sentiments of you,
Tho' to their suits ye sud na chance to bow.
An' tho' I wish't, an' wish't wi' a' my heart
You wou'd frae mean an' vulgar thoughts depart,
Yet far am I from thinking you sud take;
This or that laird to you that love sud make;
Unless his person an' his manners please
As well's the shape an' glitter o' his claise.
Yet by my saying sae I dinna mean
That fouk sud take a frack an' marry nane.
Let reason guide your choice, an' this may prove
A good foundation for a lasting love.
Be wise, my bairn, an' mind a mother says't,
'Tis a virtue this, an' virtue'l ay be prais't.”
At this poor Henny's calm as ony saint,
An' this her mither takes for half a grant;
Gaes aff contented, leaving Hen alane,
That to hersell thus made her heavy main:
“My mither's gane, an' thinks she's win the day,
'Cause to her lessons I did not say nay.
Nor did it set me; but I'm hamper'd sair,
An' see nae chance for me but endless care.
She has indeed the right end o' the string,
When neuter fouk sit judges o' the thing;
But when I it as my ain story tell,
'Tis aboon my pow'r to gee't against mysell.
An' yet I ken few will my choice approve,
'Cept sick as are, as I am, blind in love.
These whae or hear or see me sae beset
Will, maybe, to me be a tear in debt.
An' mair, I fear, will say I've plaid the fool,
That took my lesson at so poor a school.
Well, I maun e'en be doing; time maun try
My rakless race, and read my destiny.
But something whispers to me i' my ear
As honesty that nothing is so dear.
So I resolve, tho' fouk my choice may blame,
They shallna me of fickleness condemn.
Poor Kenny's maybe hard enough bestead,
And to a mischief forc'd to run his head,
An' a' for me. An' shall I not at least
For him unpoison'd keep his lippn'd feast,
Tho' he thereof sud never chance to taste?
'Tis a' I can do for him. This I'll do,
Tho' me the best in Murryland sud woo.”
In a few days auld Bessy comes again
About her rural charge down frae the glen;
An' with her brings poor Kenny's last propine,
An' gees to Henny as she's gaing to dine.
Sae wyllily the wyllie wife behav'd
That not an eye the canny hint perceiv'd.
Poor Henny's dinner yeed but bauchly down,
Piece she that day had on a Sunday's gown,
To please her mother, tho' her tender heart
Wi' grief was wrung as wi' a poison'd dart,
To think what Kenny for her sake meith dree,
Or in what dowie plight or hardships be.
But as soon as the dinner's past an' gane,
She slips awa', in pain to be her lane,
That she meith ken what Bessie's packet said,
Or gin it ony glimpse of comfort had.
Out thro' the trees she scours wi' a' her might,
An' in a glent she's safe an' out o' sight;
Then reads an' finds it's Kenny's last farewell
He left for her afore he took his heels.

Now Cousin Peg wi' her some days had been,
An' kend her wonted haunts out thro' the green.
Her in a glent the wyllie cummer mist,
An' in a clap was on her e'er she wist.
Now Henny's at her reading unko thrang;
Peg laughing says, “Is that a bra new sang?”
“The dowiest sang that ever yet I read
For poor unhappy me,” she answer made.
“I need no heal't frae you, that kens my pain.
This is the last farewell of bonny Ken.
An' this he left wi' Bess to me to gee,
An' she, poor woman, gae't right now to me.”
Sae down they sat aneath a birkin shade,
An' dowie Henny sigh'd an' grat an' read;
An' Peg of sympathy a tear loot fa',
Till baith their hearts were like to gang awa'.
At last Peg says: “Ye need no make sick main;
Maybe your Kenny will come back again.
When he has sell'd his sheep he'll maybe rue—
I'm sure he will, sae be his love be true.”
“Na, na,” says Henny, “Rorie's in a rage,
An' wad take Kenny's blood his wrath to swage.
He's proud an' clanish, an' can naething thole
That in his gentrice looks to bore a hole.
Poor Kenny better, maybe, is awa'.
I hope he yet upon his feet sall fa'.
He's good himsell, an' he'll ay kindness won,
Tho' fortune sud him force to take the gun.
'Tis born o' me sair he'll take that shift,
As a' his beasts yeed wi' him in a drift—
A sign to me he'll never come again,
Or ever tent a beast upo' the plain.
Wi' guns an' swords he ever had a fike,
An' that he'll wyre tham now is mair nor like.
Attour, he is so likely and so feat,
That they'd gee goud to get him i' the net.
An' tho' he had na chanc'd to gang awa',
Nae hope there was he to my cast wad fa';
For a'thing was against me: he was mean,
His best pretence to herd upo' the green;
I gentle-born, an' friends wad ne'er consent
That I sud tak a shepherd aff the bent.
He'll get his luck—I wiss it may be gueed—
An' ride as high as ever the king's steed.
For me, altho' he wis't I had a laird,
I's never, for his cause, wi' ane be pair'd.
'Tis a' for him is i' my pow'r to do,
An' whilk, poor man, I reckon is his due.
We're nae the first, an' may be nae the last
That has for other a' the warld past.”
“True, true's that tale, a tale o'er true indeed!
The saying of it makes my heart to bleed.
Ye're nae the first, I fear, nor yet the last;
I've got a plaid of that same very cast:
There's ane I like, an' he, I ken, likes me,
An' neither o's to own it dare be free.
For hope that we sud e'er thegither gae
Is out o' sight an' very far away.”
Then says sweet Henny: “Ye my story ken,
An' wha I've fixt to be my choice of men,
Altho' nae hopes I hae he'll e'er be mine,
Unless I wad my parents' blessing tyne,
Whilk I am laith to do, altho' I may
Indeed ne'er come to win it in their way.
Whae is this lad has got of you the start,
An' frae the gentle fouks scor'd by your heart?”
“Ay, that's the question that nae living knew
To this good hour, but I sall tell't to you,”
Says forward Peg; “a lad whase hair's like silk,
An' his clean fingers just as white's the milk,
Tho' he himsell is but a poor man's son,
But tight and handsome, an' his name's Mess John.
Well can he lear us a' to read an' write,
An' in book lair of ilka sort perfyte.
At the boord end he is allow'd a place,
At ilka meal stands up an' says the grace.
But 'boon them a' he kindness kythes to me,
But wyles well on that him nae bodie see.
He led my hand, when I to write began,
An' dos't, I'm sure, as well as ony man.
His hand is couthy, an' his voice is sweet,
An' a' his language perfectly discreet.
Gryte pity were't he were na gentle born,
Or that the want of it shou'd be a scorn.
Nae better lad or hat or cape puts on
In a' my kenning than our ain Mess John.
But wae's me! Now he's gaing far awa'
To pouss his fortune in America.
For there, he says, fouks casten o'er again,
An' come out o' the caumse right gentlemen;
That fan he's casten, he'll again come hame,
An' marry me, as sure's a dream's a dream;
That I may lippen till him haleumlie.
But sair I dread the dangers of the sea,
An' that my wisses never sall be crown'd,
But hear at last that he is dead or drown'd.”
Quoth Henny, “Cousin Peg, I've heard your tale,
An' ye, nae doubt, conclude it tells for hail.
But I about it do not want my fears,
Tho' for my ain I had, an' yet hae tears.
Fouk that's soon ta'en have aftimes cause to rue,
An' sick I fear may be the case wi' you.
Your fond Mess John but makes a feint to gae;
But does na wiss ye wad believe him sae,
But in gryte earnest take whate'er he says.
Sick tales as that are litle o' their ways.
They're ay ta'en up in reading tales of love,
An' at the wooing trade bra masters prove;
But are not ay to ride the water on,
And sick a sliddery beast may be Mess John.
Their sleeket tongues gar fouk think ae thing's twa,
An' where 't's nae biting, leaves fouk aft to cla.
I'd sooner trow a lad that hadds the plough,
That 'bout his likings makes na sick a sough,
Than sick slim sparks that i' your face can smile
Till they out o' your sense shall you beguile.
An' binna angry that I am sae free,
For out o' gueed to you it comes frae me.”
Now Kenny's gane unto some far-aff fair,
There to put aff an' toom his hand o' gear;
Whilk soon he did, & gat his cash in hand,
Nor mickle did on the prig-penny stand.
As thus he's free, and glow'ring him about,
Of fresh recruits he meets a merry rout,
Led by a sturdy serg'ant trim'd wi' lace,
Quite clean, an' calling wi' a winning grace.
Then handsome Kenny spying thro' the thrang,
He is up with him in a very bang.
With all the dextrous art that cunning can,
He claps his shouder, saying, “Here's my man!
Come, come along, my lad, here's gold in hand.
Sick lads as you do honour to command.
With men like you, our king may hadd his ain,
An' well bestow'd on you may think your gain.”
Poor willing Kenny was na ill to court,
But ere the serg'ant bad, was ready for't;
Accepts the goud, and joins the raw recruits;
An' makes a swagger o' the market streets.
He's now resolv'd this way his chance to take,
And any risk to run for Henny's sake;
An' frae the first down sets it for a rule
Never by foolish pranks to play the fool;
Persuaded that a soldier on the road
As well's a priest at home might serve his God.
For Dick's advice, with which he first began,
Had not yet left him now when grown a man.