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

In yon ha' house, ayont the fell,
Whar rural peace and pleasure dwell;
And waning age, and wanton youth,
And modest worth, and simple truth,
There lived a lass, if Fame speak true,
Wi' laughin' een and cherry mou',
And sweeter charms than I can paint:
In face and form without a taint.

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;

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.

But wha can read the buik o' fate?
Although his sonsie helpmate Kate
Was aye the apple o' his e'e,
And mony a bonny bairn had she:
Though fickle fortune brought them gain,
I wot they war'nae free frae pain:
For death, the terror o' us a',
That thins the cot and weeds the ha',
Stauk'd furth wi' a his darts and scythes,
In shape o' measles, kinks, and hives,
Till only ane their care did claim,
And bonny Betty was her name.

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

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.

Now, as sic lasses are aft scant,
O' sweethearts routh she didna want:
Sic beauty, and the name o' siller,
Gart wooers flock like wil'-geese till her.