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

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:

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:

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:—

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.

O Happiness, ye wily jade,
That maks baith poor and rich sae mad,
And towering genius dull and doited,
And sober sages capernoited,
Wha anxious search but canna get ye,
While ye sit still and never fret ye:
Though aft your secret dens and haunts,
Are fund by folks wha are nae saunts.
By rhymin' second-sighted skill,
I've fund the mansion whar ye dwell;
At least whar you and I hae met,
For 'deed ye're seldom sicker set.
'Tis when the piper's martial lay
Sweeps o'er some Highland wild strathspey;
Whar sprightly flickering dance is seen,
And lightly flows the tartan sheen;
A reekin' bowl, or Highland gill,
The ready rhino at our will;
A frien' at hand wi' wit and glee,
The lass we like best on our knee:
Wha winna be content wi' this,
Is ill to please o' wardly bliss.

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;

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:

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.