 | The Poems of Robert Fergusson |  |
AN ECLOGUE.
Twas e'ening whan the spreckled gowdspink sang,Whan new-fa'an dew in blobs o' chrystal hang;
Than Will and Sandie thought they'd wrought eneugh,
And loos'd their sair toil'd owsen frae the pleugh:
Before they ca'd their cattle to the town,
The lads to draw thir breath e'en sat them down:
To the stiff sturdy aik they lean'd their backs,
While honest Sandie thus began the cracks.
SANDIE.
Yence I could hear the laverock's shrill-tun'd throat,
And listen to the clattering gowdspink's note;
Yence I cou'd whistle cantilly as they,
To owsen, as they till'd my raggit clay;
86
To tuneless puddocks croakin i' the boggs;
I sigh at hame, a-field am dowie too,
To sowf a tune I'll never crook my mou.
WILLIE.
Foul fa me gif your bridal had na been
Nae langer bygane than sin Hallow-e'en,
I cou'd hae tell'd you but a warlock's art,
That some daft lightlyin quean had stow'n your heart;
Our beasties here will take their e'ening pluck,
An' now sin Jock's gane hame the byres to muck,
Fain wou'd I houp my friend will be inclin'd
To gie me a' the secrets o' his mind:
Heh! Sandie, lad, what dool's come owr ye now,
That you to whistle ne'er will crook your mou.
SANDIE.
Ah! Willie, Willie, I may date my wae
Frae what beted me on my bridal day;
Sair may I rue the hour in which our hands
Were knit thegither in the haly bands;
Sin that I thrave sae ill, in troth I fancy,
Some fiend or fairy, nae sae very chancy,
Has driven me by pauky wiles uncommon,
To wed this flyting fury of a woman.
WILLIE.
Ah! Sandie, aften hae I heard you tell,
Amang the lasses a' she bure the bell;
And say, the modest glances o' her ein
Far dang the brightest beauties o' the green;
You ca'd her ay sae innocent, sae young,
I thought she kent na how to use her tongue.
87
Before I married her, I'll take my aith,
Her tongue was never louder than her breath;
But now its turn'd sae souple and sae bauld,
That Job himsell cou'd scarcely thole the scauld.
WILLIE.
Lat her yelp on, be you as calm's a mouse,
Nor lat your whisht be heard into the house;
Do what she can, or be as loud's she please,
Ne'er mind her flytes but set your heart at ease,
Sit down and blaw your pipe, nor faush your thumb,
An' there's my hand she'll tire, and soon sing dumb;
Sooner shou'd winter cald confine the sea,
An' lat the sma'est o' our burns rin free;
Sooner at Yule-day shall the birk be drest,
Or birds in sapless busses big their nest,
Before a tonguey woman's noisy plea
Shou'd ever be a cause to dantan me.
SANDIE.
Weel cou'd I this abide, but oh! I fear
I'll soon be twin'd o' a' my warldly gear;
My kirnstaff now stands gizzand at the door,
My cheese-rack toom that ne'er was toom before;
My ky may now rin rowtin to the hill,
And on the nakit yird their milkness spill;
She seenil lays her hand upon a turn,
Neglects the kebbuck, and forgets the kirn;
I vow my hair-mould milk would poison dogs,
As it stands lapper'd in the dirty cogs.
I'll soon be twin'd o' a' my warldly gear;
My kirnstaff now stands gizzand at the door,
My cheese-rack toom that ne'er was toom before;
My ky may now rin rowtin to the hill,
And on the nakit yird their milkness spill;
She seenil lays her hand upon a turn,
Neglects the kebbuck, and forgets the kirn;
I vow my hair-mould milk would poison dogs,
As it stands lapper'd in the dirty cogs.
Before the seed I sell'd my ferra cow,
An wi' the profit coft a stane o' woo:
I thought, by priggin, that she might hae spun
A plaidie, light, to screen me frae the sun;
But though the siller's scant, the cleedin dear,
She has na ca'd about a wheel the year.
Last ouk but ane I was frae hame a day,
Buying a threave or twa o' bedding strae:
O' ilka thing the woman had her will,
Had fouth o' meal to bake, and hens to kill:
But hyn awa' to Edinbrough scoured she
To get a making o' her fav'rite tea;
And 'cause I left her not the weary clink,
She sell't the very trunchers frae my bink.
An wi' the profit coft a stane o' woo:
88
A plaidie, light, to screen me frae the sun;
But though the siller's scant, the cleedin dear,
She has na ca'd about a wheel the year.
Last ouk but ane I was frae hame a day,
Buying a threave or twa o' bedding strae:
O' ilka thing the woman had her will,
Had fouth o' meal to bake, and hens to kill:
But hyn awa' to Edinbrough scoured she
To get a making o' her fav'rite tea;
And 'cause I left her not the weary clink,
She sell't the very trunchers frae my bink.
WILLIE.
Her tea! ah! wae betide sic costly gear,
Or them that ever wad the price o't spear.
Sin my auld gutcher first the warld knew,
Fouk had na fund the Indies, whare it grew.
I mind mysell, it's nae sae lang sin syne,
Whan Auntie Marion did her stamack tyne,
That Davs our gardiner came frae Apple-bogg,
An' gae her tea to tak by way o' drog.
SANDIE.
Whan ilka herd for cauld his fingers rubbs,
An' cakes o' ice are seen upo' the dubbs;
At morning, whan frae pleugh or fauld I come,
I'll see a braw reek rising frae my lum,
An' ablins think to get a rantin blaze
To fley the frost awa' an' toast my taes;
But whan I shoot my nose in, ten to ane
If I weelfardly see my ane hearthstane;
She round the ingle with her gimmers sits,
Crammin their gabbies wi' her nicest bits,
While the gudeman out-by maun fill his crap
Frae the milk coggie, or the parritch cap.
89
Sandie, gif this were ony common plea,
I shou'd the lealest o' my counsel gie;
But mak or meddle betwixt man and wife,
Is what I never did in a' my life.
It's wearin on now to the tail o' May,
An' just between the bear seed and the hay;
As lang's an orrow morning may be spar'd,
Stap your wa's east the haugh, an' tell the laird;
For he's a man weel vers'd in a' the laws,
Kens baith their outs and ins, their cracks and flaws,
An' ay right gleg, whan things are out o' joint,
At sattlin o' a nice or kittle point.
But yonder's Jock, he'll ca' your owsen hame,
And tak thir tidings to your thrawart dame,
That ye're awa' ae peacefu' meal to prie,
And take your supper kail or sowens wi' me.
| The Poems of Robert Fergusson | |