Poems by Robert Nicoll Second edition: with numerous additions, and a memoir of the author |
 | I. |
 | II. |
THE LAMENT OF BENEDICK THE MARRIED MAN. |
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| IV. |
| V. |
 | Poems by Robert Nicoll |  |
THE LAMENT OF BENEDICK THE MARRIED MAN.
I ance was a wanter, as happy's a bee:—
I meddled wi' nane, and nane meddled wi' me.
I whiles had a crack o'er a cog o' gude yill—
Whiles a bicker o' swats—whiles a heart-heezin' gill;
And I aye had a groat if I hadna a pound,—
On the earth there were nane meikle happier found:
But my auld mither died in the year aughty-nine,
An' I ne'er ha'e had peace in the warld sinsyne.
I meddled wi' nane, and nane meddled wi' me.
I whiles had a crack o'er a cog o' gude yill—
Whiles a bicker o' swats—whiles a heart-heezin' gill;
And I aye had a groat if I hadna a pound,—
On the earth there were nane meikle happier found:
But my auld mither died in the year aughty-nine,
An' I ne'er ha'e had peace in the warld sinsyne.
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Fu' sound may she sleep!—a douce woman was she,
Wi' her wheel, an' her pipe, an' her cuppie o' tea.
My ingle she keepit as neat as a preen,
And she never speer'd questions, as, “Where ha'e ye been?”
Or, “What were ye doin'?” an' “Wha were ye wi'?”—
We were happy thegither, my mither an' me:
But the puir bodie died in the year aughty-nine,
An' I ne'er ha'e had peace in the warld sinsyne.
Wi' her wheel, an' her pipe, an' her cuppie o' tea.
My ingle she keepit as neat as a preen,
And she never speer'd questions, as, “Where ha'e ye been?”
Or, “What were ye doin'?” an' “Wha were ye wi'?”—
We were happy thegither, my mither an' me:
But the puir bodie died in the year aughty-nine,
An' I ne'er ha'e had peace in the warld sinsyne.
When my mither was gane, for a while I was wae;
But a young chap was I, an' a wife I maun ha'e.
A wife soon I gat, an' I aye ha'e her yet,
An' folk think thegither we unco weel fit:
But my ain mind ha'e I, though I mauna speak o't,
For mair than her gallop I like my ain trot.
O! my auld mither died in the year aughty-nine,
An' I ne'er ha'e had peace in the warld sinsyne.
But a young chap was I, an' a wife I maun ha'e.
A wife soon I gat, an' I aye ha'e her yet,
An' folk think thegither we unco weel fit:
But my ain mind ha'e I, though I mauna speak o't,
For mair than her gallop I like my ain trot.
O! my auld mither died in the year aughty-nine,
An' I ne'er ha'e had peace in the warld sinsyne.
If I wi' a cronie be takin' a drap,
She'll yaumer, an' ca' me an auld drucken chap.
If an hour I bide out, loud she greets an' she yowls,
An' bans a' gude fellows, baith bodies an' souls:
And then sic a care she has o' her gudeman!
Ye would think I were doited—I canna but ban!
O! my auld mither died in the year aughty-nine,
An' I ne'er ha'e had peace in the warld sinsyne.
She'll yaumer, an' ca' me an auld drucken chap.
If an hour I bide out, loud she greets an' she yowls,
An' bans a' gude fellows, baith bodies an' souls:
And then sic a care she has o' her gudeman!
Ye would think I were doited—I canna but ban!
O! my auld mither died in the year aughty-nine,
An' I ne'er ha'e had peace in the warld sinsyne.
Our young gilpie dochters are lookin' for men,
An' I'll be a grandsire or ever I ken:
Our laddies are thinkin' o' rulin' the roast—
Their father, auld bodie, 's as deaf as a post!
But he sees their upsettin', sae crouse an' sae bauld:—
O! why did I marry, an' wherefore grow auld?
My mither! ye died in the year aughty-nine,
An' I ne'er ha'e had peace in the warld sinsyne!
An' I'll be a grandsire or ever I ken:
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Their father, auld bodie, 's as deaf as a post!
But he sees their upsettin', sae crouse an' sae bauld:—
O! why did I marry, an' wherefore grow auld?
My mither! ye died in the year aughty-nine,
An' I ne'er ha'e had peace in the warld sinsyne!
| Poems by Robert Nicoll | |