University of Virginia Library

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THE COUNTRY LASS:

A Tale.

IN EIGHT PARTS.

Part I. The Introduction.

Her father's name was John Maclellan—
Douce honest man, he farmed a mailin';
In youthfu' days wrought for his bread,
Wi' gude blue bonnet on his head,
And though the times began to mend,
His auld acquaintance aye he ken'd;
Blest wi' a rive o' common sense,
To polished life made nae pretence:
Was simply plain in a' his dealin's,
Nor wad he step aside for mailin's:
Ne'er preed anither but his wife,—
Ne'er heard a law court in his life;

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Could tak' his chappin, pay his kain,
But never tippled by his lane.
Nor wad his wifie waste his winnin',
But kept a' feat wi' her ain spinnin'—
Held aye the house baith tight and bein,
And made their meltiths warm an' clean:
Whan winter nights war dark and lang,
Could tell her tale or lilt her sang,
'Bout deeds o' weir in former days,
Or lovers' dools on Scotlan's braes,
Wi' weirds and witcheries aft atween,
And unco sights that some had seen;
Nor was she backward or unheedfu'
To ken, or tell o' things mair needfu'—
Had read the Unconverted's Call,
And learnt hail loof-breads o' St Paul,
Wi' sic like learnin' as was common
For ony couthy, country woman.

Ere saxteen simmers o'er her flew,
She could baith card and spin the woo'

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Row up the fleeces at the clippin',
And had the milkness a' in keepin'—
Could knit and sew, and a' sic wark,
As dress her faither's Sunday sark,
Crimp up ilk ruffle, frill, and border,
And set the tea-cups a' in order;
And maxims mony mae were taught her,
That ilka mither shaws her daughter:
Was kind and blythsome wi' her kin,
Or ony neibour that cam' in;
For chapman chiel or beggar body,
Her weel waled word was aye fu' ready,
Till a', baith far and near confest,
She was the bonniest and the best.

II. Part II. The Farmer's Son.

The first, a farmer's eldest sin,
Was beef without, but blank within:
On market Mondays sauld a stirk,
On Sunday closely kept the kirk,
Wi' pious zeal, and future views,
To wale a wife, and catch the news.
I wat a pleugh he weel could tune,
And trim his graith, and mend his shoon:

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Could shear a point baith fast and slaw,
And thresh, and dike, and ditch, and maw;
But then his een and thoughts were blind
To beauties o' the heart and mind.
It never crossed his brain the smallest
If Rome or Glasco' town was aul'est,
Was E'nbro' 'yont or neist the Forth,
If France lay east, or west, or north:
Unmoved, “The Waes o' War” he'd hear,
Nor piteous tale could draw a tear:
In vain the spring her flow'rets spread,
Thoughtless, he'd on the daisy tread;
In vain the wee birds happ'd and sang
The buddin' hazle bank alang;
Or lam'kins roun' him skipt an' play'd,
While ewies for their younglin's maed:
Sic sights nae pleasure brought ava—
Only, if every ewe had twa,
If grass wad gar the outlers sell,
And how the braird look'd on the hill.
At vulgar jest or smutty sang,
His vacant laugh was loud and lang:
Proud, without prudence, wit, or wealth,
His only property was health—
He saw at least ae specious charm—
The lassie's gear wad stock a farm;
And though his hopes did highly shore him,
'Twas but sma' kindness she had for him.

It chanced ae morning mirk wi' mist,
He saw young Betty ere she wist,
Ca'in' the ewes wi' cannie care,
That war a' scattered here and there:

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Aff ilka blade the dew-drap flang,
As light she through the clover sprang.
A hunder beauties flushed her cheek,
Her risin' bosom seemed to speak:
The napkin loosed, wi' ease he saw
The bonniest keams o' new-faun snaw.
'Twas then that Love played him a shavie,
And strak his dart in donsie Davie.
Her coats war kiltet to the knee,
And shawed right shapely to the e'e,
A leg sae handsome, feat, and clean—
She leuk'd like ony fairy queen.
But what made him sae simply sober,
To see the lass amang the clover,
And gart his heart aye thump and pat,
Though neither fley'd, nor cauld, nor wat,
And start behint a buss and cour,
Though he had seen the lass afore,
And silent lie like ony maukin,
Wha ne'er afore was feared for talkin',
Till ewe and lamb had left the lair,
And she was hame, and he was there?

Neist time was at a countra waddin',
When baith were present at the beddin';
On bride-cakes sweet they chewed the cud,
The drink gaed roun' in merry mood,
Wiss'd routh o' bairns and happy days,
And poured libations 'mang the claes:
The left leg hoe they now prepare,
And circle roun' wi' anxious care,
To see wha fortune wad decide
To be the neist bridegroom and bride:—

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When lo! the die of fate was cast,
And lightet saft on Betty's breast:—
The shouts o' laughter roun' were spread;
She stepped aside, but naething said;
While Davie thought the time's at hand
That he maun either fa' or stand.

Yet still our wooer wasna happy,
Though fully half and half wi' nappy;
Though hale and feir, and routh o' rents,
Like Adam still he had his wants;

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Alas! he kentna whar to gang—
But Davie saw his help at han'.
Right blythe he sat by her, I ween,
But ithers soon thrust in atween,
And if she on them deigned to look,
He thought it something frae him took;
For envy catched him in her thrall,
And turned his sweetest joys to gall.
But whisky aye gars courage come,
Dispels ilk doubt, ilk fear and gloom;
For first ae service, then anither,
His courage syne began to gather.
He e'ed his boots, and thought them braw,
Then a' his fears he flung awa;
He bowed—she smiled, and raise to reel,
And few could play their part sae weel.
Her lint-white locks were belted roun'
Save curls that played her e'e aboon,
Where Cupid was in ambush laid,
And mony a wily trick he played:
Her shapely neck, o' fairest hue,
Was graced wi' garnets, gilt and blue;
But vain wad Art her gum-flowers shaw,
Whar Nature's lilies rival snaw.

He gazed, he viewed her o'er and o'er,
Nor lap he e'er sae light afore,
Syne pu'd her down upon his knee—
O, what a happy man was he!
He hoasts for breath, but naething said,
His han' upon her shouther laid.
His hopes were high, his heart was fain,
He dights his brow and hoasts again:

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Yet still in art o' wooing slack.
At length she gloomy silence brak:
“How's a' your fouk at hame?” quo she;
“They're middling weel,” again quo he;
“To set ye hame I wad be fain;
I'se warrant ye'll no gang your lane.
I saw ye brawlie when ye cam
Out owre the muir wi' gard'ner Tam.
As soon as ye cam to the brow,
I lookit lang and thought 'twas you.
Our young cowt goved, I ga'em a whack,
He pranced and syne the back-rape brak.
When I was tackin't up thegither,
He ate the brecham aff the ither:
For he's sae fu' o' pranks and tricks,
And jumps, and flings, and snores, and kicks.
Yet though he's ill and ill eneugh,
I ne'er saw ony in a pleugh,
When rivin' through yon bent and heather,
That I wad gie the tane for t'ither.
But though I say't that soudna tell,
Nane e'er dare work wi'm but mysel'.
My mither o' him dreads aye skaith,
And says he'll some day be my death.
And ance he hurt my shin right sair,”—
Thinks Bess, “ye'll mak' a bonny pair!”
So up she gat and tripped her ways,
And left the laddie in amaze.
Nae langer could she thole his blether,
But slip't hame canny wi' her faither:
He ne'er again, at kirk or fair,
Durst ever wi' her taigle mair.

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III. Part III. The Kirkless Priest.

But wha can hae a mind sae mirk,
Although his reverence gat nae kirk,
To think that he should jog through life,
Without the pleasures o' a wife;
Or like a celibastic Roman,
Forswear the joys o' lovely woman!
A neibour's bairn was he, I ween,
And at the college aft had been;
Had learnt to trim his beard wi' grace,
Wi' whiskers half-gate o'er his face;
Could speak and spell wi' modish skill,
And broach the doctrine o' “free will;”
Put on his claes wi' meikle pain,
And brush them clean o' stour and stain;

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Name kittle words as smooth as satin,
And shaw how they were born frae Latin;
White whalebone busks for ladies dink,
And wrote love-letters without ink:
Right sharp the vulgar's faut's discernin',
And saw the benefits o' learnin';
Could mak' a bow or shake a paw
Wi' ony gentle o' them a'.

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But ance, when gloamin' shed her rays,
As they cam owre the bracken braes—
The auld folks now were out o' sight,
The sun was sunk ayont the height,—
His arms he laid around her waist,
And ay he close and closer prest.
“My dear Eliza! love,” he said,
“My only angel! heav'nly maid!

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Come, sit thee down, till I explain
The causes o' my grief and pain.
With ardent fires my breast doth burn,
It's a' for your sweet sake I mourn.
O let me clasp thee in my arms,
And bless me wi' thy heaven o' charms.”
Syne said his heart was in a low;
He spak o' darts, and Cupid's bow:
Neist ca'd her Venus, Heb', and Iris,
And names that stunned her wi' their queerness;
Till, by some motions o' his hand,
She better cam to understand.
“'Tis love,” says he, “mak's me sae free;
I hope, my soul, ye will forgi'e.”
“These hopes shall ne'er be realised!”
Quo' Bet, offended and surprised.
“Is that your Scripture, and your readin',
Your E'nbrugh tricks and college breedin'?”
Yet still he held her in his grip,
And wasna willin' to let slip:
Says, “Haud your tongue, Bess, for my blessin',
David, ye ken, was gi'en to kissin'.”
When lo! a bark cam frae the hill,
And syne a whistle, loud and shrill.
'Twas Shepherd Sandy, wi' his doggie,
Cam skelpin down the glen sae scroggie;
His plaid out-owre his shouther flung,
While wi' his notes the echoes rung.
Right fain was she the tyke to see:
The fribble down upon his knee;
Nae langer parley did he claim,
But let her gae, and slippet hame;

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Nor was he anxious to come back,
Wi' Kate or her to get a crack.

IV. Part IV. Sandy the Shepherd.

Now Sandy was a clever chiel,
And could baith read and write fu' weel;
Had thoughts on things baith in and out—
Kent mair than ony herd about:
At sic like wark as he profest,
Was never hinmost, if no' best.
He ance a day could dance and sing,
And on the pipes play mony a spring.

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But love, the bane o' high and low,
That shoots the shepherd and the beau,
Had hurt his peace, but men't his pen,
Although he ne'er let ony ken:
For Poverty, wi' iron claw,
That cauldrife rook that paiks us a',
Had chilled his hopes and dimm'd his views:
He for a helpmate woo'd the muse.
Nature, through a' her varied hue,
To him had charms for ever new.
He aft would sing his lassie's praise,
Wi' a' his native burns and braes,
And link them up in rustic rhyme,
To answer his loud chaunter's time:
Or sing, in rude and bolder lays,
Some follies o' our modern days.
But where the social band was met,
He ne'er was seen to gloom or fret,
'Twas there he herriet pleasure's nest,
And couped his cap up wi' the best,
Till, saft and clear, like morning dew,
The flights o' wit and humour flew.
Or if a frien' did stand in need
O' help by either word or deed,
He ne'er was sweir a han' to len'
And deemed it siller's noblest en';
That gart himsel' whiles be negleckit,
And by the warldly disrespeckit.

But Betty whiles would guess a part,—
For love by looks can judge the heart.
They baith were bairns brought up thegither,
And aye were unco pack wi' ither.

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When at the school he took her han',
Or cleant her claes if she had faun;
And wi' his plaid would screen the show'r,
Ere love to plague had catch'd the pow'r.
When she to milk the ewes had gane,
He cam and bure the leglen hame;
Or at the bught she ne'er thought lang,
While he tauld o'er some tale or sang;
And lent her buiks to read at leisure,
Syne talk'd them o'er wi' meikle pleasure,
Till words and thoughts begat a kinship
O' ties mair tender far than frien'ship.

Sae it was a' but fair and right,
That he should see her hame that night;
Jocosely spier'd whar she had been,
That she was gaun sae late at e'en;
And how the priest had chanced to turn
Afore he saw her owre the burn?
She hid her face, and tried to laugh,
And said, “She hadna been far aff.
Ye see that he has ta'en the rue,
But gif he's gane, I've gotten you.”

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“But then,” quo he, “I'm no sae sonsie
To haud away the wights unchancie;
For fient a fay durst e'er appear
Sae lang as he was gaun you near.
Yet, rather than ye gang your lane,
I'll do my best to see ye hame.
But, bless me, Betty, gi'es your han',
Ye look as ye could hardly stan';
There's surely something wrang or ither,
Ye ne'er let ae sab wait anither.”
Kindly her han' and arm she gaed:
Awa they slipt but naething said.
Yet, in that silent situation,
For what would he hae changed his station?
Right fain would she hae tell't him a',
Yet something aye within said na.
The heart was fu, 'twould fain been out,
But couldna light on words to suit,—
Till memory stept across the min',
And waked the days o' auld lang syne.
The hawthorn yet stood on the brae
That shielt them mony a simmer day;
Whar the slee pyat wont to hap,
The lanely cushat cooin' sat.
Their seats and houses reared wi' care,
The stanes lay scattered here and there;
And saugh trees, planted by his han',
Waved high their taps, and hid the stran'.
What various thoughts the mind pourtrayed,—
His cheek to hers he saftly laid,
While sympathy, wi' simple haud,
Forgot that modesty forbad.

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E'en waefu' “Ken,” with gratefu' e'e,
Wad lick her han' and whisk her knee,
Till she wad straik and clap his head,
Then joyfu' on the way he'd lead.
“O Bess! thir scenes are dear to me,
But doubly sae when blest wi' thee;
Dear as when hope the mind employs,
To picture scenes o' future joys:
Though simmer has withdrawn his beams,
They're aften present in my dreams,
Wi' a' the flow'ry birth o' May,
When we, like them, were young and gay.
Ilk hill and dale, and buss, and green,
Whispers how happy we hae been.
I fear they'll ne'er return again—
And pleasure past but heightens pain:
As wintry calms in mildest form,
Prove aft the prelude to a storm.
When ye war near I aye was glad,
And seemed to see ye aft when fled:
As music through the ear does thrill,
Though ceased, we seem to hear it still.
I kentna then, as I ken noo,
What ill the want o' wealth could do;
Or, if for't e'er my heart did ache,
'Twas only, truly, for thy sake.
Me, fondest fancy whiles would move,
To picture a' the joys o' love;
Till I my wishes could explain,
And some day ye would be my ain:
Then a' my fears to air wad gang—
Now tell me was I right or wrang?”

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“It's no for me,” quo she, “to say
What may be done some ither day;
Nor can I weel, e'en now define
The thoughts, when young, that crossed my min';
But this I ken, as weel's yoursel',
That some gang daft when they hear tell:
And mair partic'larly my mither,
Whene'er she kens that we're thegither.
On marriage I'm no' fully bent,
Nor do I yet ken their intent;
But soon as I can guess their views,
I'll sen' ye twa lines o' the news.
Ye needna doubt—I'll no forget—
But, see! we're maist come to the yett;
Ye'd better turn.”—Quo he, “Ye'll mind,”
So kissed, shook han's, and parted kind;
While back he scoured out owre the bent,
And thought his journey no ill spent.

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V. Part V. The Wylie Merchant.

At John's he'd stay baith weeks and days,
And clash wi' Kate, and sell them claes;
And whiles upon the trump would play,
Or sing the dools o' “Duncan Gray,”
Or gie to Bet, though she was sma',
A screed o' lace to make her braw:
And aften to himsel' would hum—
“Thy tocher will do good to some.”
A throwgaun, rattlin', merry chiel,
And fouk a' thocht him doin' weel;

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Till a' at ance he made a stop,
But after soon set up a shop.

“But sic a change was never seen;
Bless me, ye're turned a strappin' quean,
Sin' I stayed at your faither's house,
He was an honest man, and douce!
And then, sae fluently ye speak,
And sic a blossom's on your cheek;
Though our town nymphs be trig and braw,
Shame fa' me but ye ding them a'.

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I'm sure the lads are rinnin' mony
For you, sae rich, and braw, and bonny:
Wha saw your craft about the gloamin',
Wad see them thick and thrang a-roamin'.”
A' this he said. Then she again—
“O, sir, ye're surely makin' game;
Or think ye I can a' believe
What ye in compliment me give?
But, Mr Din, if ane might speir,
Ye've haen a house this mony a year,
Wi' a' things fit to comfort life—
How live ye thus without a wife?”
“I own,” quo he, “in this I'm wrang,
But then the warl' held me thrang;
And, ere that I can get gear wi' me,
The fient a ane, I fear, will hae me,
Ye see I've near lost mark o' mouth,
And lasses aye are fond o' youth:
But tell me truly, now, could ye
Be happy wi' the like o' me?
In this, dear Bet, I am not mockin',
Though whiles I hae a gate o' jokin'.
O! what a pleasure I wad hae,
To keep you like a lady gay.”—
But here the prentice in did pop,
And o' the dialogue made a stop.
So she gaed hame while it was light,
And dreamt o' ribbons a' the night.
For fashion's freaks sae filled her head,
She soon forgat her shepherd lad;
Or if she min't him sin' that night,
She saw him in a different light—

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A decent lad, and gi'en to readin',
But that has neither house nor haudin';
And then my mither's peace 'twad kill:
Bairns aye should do their parents will—
They maistly aye do weel does that.
Weel, fouk in towns live trig and neat,
And some do say, if poortith come,
That love, like reek, flies up the lum.
Thus by the dint o' soundest reason,
She found her former passion treason—
Let doatin' fools say what they will,
A woman will be woman still.

But in the morning when she raise,
She showed them a' her braw new claes,
And tauld auld Kate she never saw
The merchant ha'e a shop sae braw.
“Frae Lon'on now his goods he brings:
I'm sure he sells a' unco things.
The factor's wife, wi' young Miss Grace,
Were there and bought a new pelisse,
A' trimmed wi' gimp o' velvet green,
The prettiest thing that e'er was seen.
The fouk say, a' the country roun',
He sells the cheapest in the town;
And then, he's aye sae frank and free:
Yestreen he gart me stay to tea,
And showed me a' before we stentit,
Out through the house—it's newly pentit;
And meikle mair than I can name,
O' furniture that's new come hame;
Syne tret me to a glass o' gin,
And wondered that ye ne'er cam in.”

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“Guid sooth,” quo Kate, “lass, I'll be bun
To lay a plack, forgain a pun,
He's on you thrown a wily e'e:
For weel I mind when ye were wee,
He'd please you aft when I was thrang,
And sing you mony a merry sang,
And bring you fairins frae the fair,
And speak about your bonny hair.
Although the town's fouk wi' their havers,
About him raise sic lies and clavers,
The fient a civiler chiel there's in't:
Fouk aye should roose the ford's they fin't.”

To please auld John, too, he had skill,
Wi' routh o' cracks and routh o' yill,
“How the last Parliament that sat
Was busied wi' the Lord knows what,
O' kirk and state and dark petitions,
And souderin' mighty coalitions;
What Wellington had done in Spain;
How foreign war keeps up the grain:
That tax and tithes were now nae play,
And land was risin' every day:
How the rude Russians frae the woods,
Had soused poor Boney in the suds,
And cowed his garments by his wame,
And shaved his beard, and sent him hame,
And raised a dearth 'mang Paris barbers;
How Britain shored to block his harbours:
But some said when it cam a thow,
They feared again his beard wad grow,
And learn the Cossacks a new fling,
And cow their whiskers 'gain the spring.

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How Yankee's sons, wi' wicked speed,
Wi' Madison at their board head,
Had led our brigs and boats a dance,
And ta'en their trade awa to France.
How, gif the Papist Bill would pass,
'Twould bring the nation to distress;
Sound orthodox it would enthral,
And fill their seats wi' sons o' Baal:
For Satan and the Man o' Sin
Need nought but their wee finger in,
And Gibeon's sons wi' a' their clatter,
Should hew the wood and draw the water”—
Auld John gaes hame, and thought and said,
“Weel, yon chiel has an unco head.”

So a' bowls now rowed square and right,
The auld fouks saw their prospect bright.
While Betty's heart was blythe and gay,
The merchant cam' ae King's fast-day:
They a' a kindly welcome gae'm,
And treat him weel wi' curds and cream;
When in return fu' kind was he,
And fetched auld Kate a pun' o' tea.
They cracked owre a' the news in town,
And preed a drap to synd them down;
Syne tauld his erran' pat and plain,
And saw it wasna that ill ta'en.
Betty looked down and held her tongue;
Her mither doubted she was young,
And aiblins whiles might act amiss,
In managin' a house like his.
“Indeed,” quo John, “I canna tell,
I wished her aye to please hersel';

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And whar she liket best to gang,
Unless 'twere a' the farer wrang;
It's nae faut they that bear the load
Should hae the choosin' o' the road,
And they wha climb the slippery tree,
Should pluck the fruits that please the e'e.
The great respect to her ye've paid,
Should surely aye be duly weighed:
What say ye, dochter, speak out plain
Your answer to the gentleman?”
She tarried lang, as in a swither,
Then sought a fortnight to consider;
While he, contentit, slippet hame,
For, 'las! his fire edge was gane.

VI. Part VI. The Luckless Errant.

Ha'e no seen the towering pine
Spread out its arms to western wind,
Or bathe its bud in April dews,
While wild birds warbled through its boughs,

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Till loud the northern blasts are borne,
Its foliage thinned, its branches torn?
Or ha'e ye seen the parent mild,
Bow o'er his sickly only child,
While silent griefs his bosom wound,
Unmindful of his friends around?

To ease his mind frae doubts and dread,
And see gif a' was true was said,
At midnight hour, wi' grief opprest,
When thoughtless sauls were at their rest,

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He stalked awa' through win' and rain,
And sought her door wi' meikle pain,
There at the window peepit in,
But a' was still and dark within:
His bane, his bliss, his a' was there;
His hopes were dull, his heart was sair;
Each wonted signal now he tries,
He chaps, he whispers, hoasts, and cries,
“Oh! are ye sleepin', Betty dear?”
Yet she lay still and doughtna hear;
But the unchancie curs within
Soon heard, and made a gowlin' din:
Till Kate waked, wi' an unco fike,
Cries “What's ado! the dogs gane gyte!
The Lord look till us and our wean,
For something surely ca'd her name;
Like a wild skreich borne on the wind,
And thrice it duntit on the grund:
Wi' sic a soun my lugs were stouned
The night afore Jean Tamson drowned—
John, did ye hear that voice sae deep?”
“Hout, I heard nought—lie still and sleep.”

The east win' blew, wi' hailstanes keen;
The light'ning gleamed the blasts between:
His road lay owre a dreary moor,
And by a castle's haunted tower,

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Whar howlets screamed wi' eerie din,
Till vaults re-echoed a' within.
The spate spewed owre ilk burn and sleugh,
The tod screamt eldricht frae the cleugh,
Auld Dee spread wide his darkened waves,
And roared amang his rocky caves;
The moon and stars their light withdrew,
And hid their heads frae human view,
As daunderin' slow, he stalked his lane,
A' wearied, wan, and wae-begane,
His fondest fairy dreams were fled—
He sighed, and wished him wi' the dead.

But when the ruddy streaks o' dawn
Had spread their light owre loch and lawn,
Up sprang the lark, on early wing,
And waked his field-mates round to sing;
When Kate, aye eident for their weal,
Gat up, and maist fell owre the wheel;
Her brats she on her bouk was drawin,
Afore the cock had ceased frae crawin';

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67

Then to the hallan graips her way,
And looks the lift, to judge the day.

But, Sandy, ye were waur than mad,
To shoot your sonnets sic a road:
For, coming near the water-kit,
She sees some white thing at her fit,
As back she owre the threshold treadit—
But, praise be blest!—she couldna read it.
First thought it was a Johnnie Napier,
Then deemed it Betty's curling paper;
Flang't in the bole behint the lum,
Rakes down the coals, and lights her gun.
But breakfast done, and reading by,
The men to hill, and Kate to kye,
When Betty, busied at her wheel,
And lilting owre Lord Moira's reel,
Hard by the bole had ta'en her stan',
She sees the scrawl, and kens the han'.
The paper trembled as she read,
And aye her colour came and gaed:—
“Thou fause, though fairest o' thy kind,
That wounds my peace, and racks my mind,
Canst thou thy Sandy's heart disdain,
And slight his love for sordid gain;
That ance his fondest hopes would cheer,
And bless him with thy presence dear?
I fain wad seen thee by thysel',
To tak' the lang and last farewell,
Afore that waefu' knot be tied,
That bin's thee for anither's bride,

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68

And leads thee, blushing in thy charms,
Into a happy rival's arms.
Far be't frae me, that I dissuade,
Or blame you for the choice you've made:
But had ye been content to gi'e
Your han' through life, and luck wi' me,
For you ilk care and cross I'd meet,
And toiled through winter's win' and weet;
Nor should it e'er been wardly gain,
I think, should cost you grief or pain.
But Fate sic favours doughtna deign;
Alas! ye never can be mine.
Adieu! and may ye happy be,
As e'er I thought to've been wi' thee.”

VII. Part VII. The Beggar Bodie.

But soon cam' in, and stapt her study,
A silly, faichless, beggar bodie.
The tattered remnants o' her claes
Looked like remains o' better days:
Though young in years, seemed auld in grief,
And faintly sought some sma' relief.
Within her withered, wearied arm,
There lay a silly, thrawart bairn,

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69

Wi' cauld and hunger black and blue,
That seemed to swap some face she knew.
The waefu' thing began to greet;
She bade her come and warm its feet;
Then sighed and pitied sair her lot,
And gae her kail, warm frae the pot.
Then in cam Kate and did her e'e,
Says, “Honest woman, where live ye?
Hae ye a man; or is he dead,
That ye've sae early tried the trade?”
The waefu' body hung her head.
“Indeed, gudewife, I've neist to nane,
Although I chanced to hae this wean.
Some's born to poortith, some to plenty;
Some ne'er do weel, though e'er so tentie.
My fouks a' died when I was wee,
And now I'm come to what ye see;
And a' by a fause merchant loon,
Lives het and fou within the town.
He has brought me to meikle shame,
And hurt my peace, my health, and name.”
Quo Kate, “Can that be Mister Din?”
“Indeed,” quo she, “the vera ane.
My gutcher, too, now he's awa,
That lived within the Rattan Raw—
Ye aiblins kent him—Andro Reid—
He seldom saw the faut I did.
Sae I got plenty o' my will;—
We lived by selling hame-brewed yill.
Rab aft cam owre at gloamin's e'e,
To tak a drap, and crack wi' me.
He soon turned mair than common kind;

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70

But I could never bow my mind,
Though he would vow and praise my face,
Till ance the priest had said the grace.
But by his devilish Judas skill
He soon brought a' things to his will:
He said he had some secret en's,
Forbye the angerin' o' his frien's;
But for to show that he was kind,
And put a' doubts out o' my mind,
He kent a priest that lived near by,
Wha soon our han's and hearts would tie;
But I should stay at hame as yet,
Till ance we saw a time mair fit.
Alas! I sawna where I ran,
Like ithers, fond to get a man:
Owre deep for me the scheme was laid,
I deemed it gospel a' he said;
For what we wish we soon believe,
Which gars me now baith greet and grieve.
The priest turned out—what need I tell,
A maskëd villain like himsel'.
I o' him now began to doubt,
For he cam seldomer about;
And when I rued, and vowed, and grat,
He soothed me on wi' this and that.
We carried on a time o' sinnin',
(For evil needs but a beginnin',)
Till, by our frequent being thegither,
I fand I soon would be a mither,
Sae when it could nae mair be hid,
'Twas then I o' my spark got rid;
He shunned me now where'er we met,

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71

And scarce a word I e'er could get:
Then when I gaed to speak to him,
He aye was thrang, or no within.
So now my gutcher I maun tell,
When I could hardly gang mysel',
His time-worn cheek yet paler grew,
The dim red frae his fa'en lip flew;
‘Oh! luckless bairn—this for my care!’
He saw my tears, and said nae mair,
But took his staff, and awa' he set,
But an unholy welcome gat.
Rab would do nought but curse and swear,
And ca' me names I ill could bear;
Denied our marriage, time and place,
And said he hardly kent my face,
And would advise us, as a friend,
To gang to some I better kend,
For gif we gae him mair abuse,
He'd tak us to a bigger house.
We tried the law—the law was vain,
It only brought expense and pain;
He took it to a higher court;
We hadna siller to gie for't;
A poind was ca'd, we maun remove,
For saying things we couldna prove.
Feeble, in want and sair disgrace,
We wistna where to show our face.
My gutcher cheered me, said his prayers;
But grief brought down his auld grey hairs,
And ere this wee thing saw the light,
His e'en were closed in endless night,
And left us, at its luckless birth,

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72

Twa waefu' outcasts on the yirth.”

Part VIII. The Conclusion.

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.

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73

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.

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74

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.

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75

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.—

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

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76

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.