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

The neist was o' the black coat tribe,
Wi' sturdy limbs and shouthers wide;
Uninfluenced by cauldrife Saturn,
Had lang been gaping for a patron;
Yet somehow ne'er the nail could hit,
But mis't it ay just at the bit.
Whether the age had swarmed wi' teachers,
Or men were thowless grown 'bout preachers,
Or sense was scorned while clubs had chances,
Or priests war plentier grown than manses,
Or if the laddie wanted merit,
Or savoured mair o' flesh than spirit,
Or gin they're a' like ither men,—
Its mair I'm sure than I can ken.

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;

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'.

When dark December days were short,
He sometimes tried the shooting sport.
Now as John's groun' was thinly dyket,
And had the muirfowl that he liket,
He'd aft come in, and tak' a seat,
To see the lass, and crack wi' Kate,
Or gie the present o' a hare;—
For he was ay made welcome there,
To what the house could e'er afford
O' coal, or yill, or bed, or board.
Syne she would speir gif he could tell
What age was Adam when he fell?
Whether the serpent flew or gaed?
If Abel's wound was on his head?
Gif Cain's mark was warl' like?
Wha bigget Paradise yard dyke?
Wha it was first that span a sark?
Gif Aaron's rod was peeled o' bark?
If circumcision hurt ane sair?
What was the weight o' Abs'lom's hair?
Wi' mony mae o' sic like kin',
Might puzzlet mony a learned divine,
Wer'tna that Stackhouse, by his study,
Has made them pat and plain already.

When for sic kindness, in return,
He'd aft invite them owre the burn,
And fell twa birds whiles wi' ae stane—
Said grace and saw young Betty hame.
When times would answer, now and than,
He'd tak' her kindly by the han',
Say, not a lady he did know,
A han' sae saft or fair could show;
Then kiss't and clasp it to his breast,
And say he would be truly blest,
The too much favoured happy man,
Would get that heart as weel's the han';
While she would, laughin', push him aft,
And say, I'm sure the man's gane daft.

When last frae E'nbrugh he cam hame,
He brought her a braw muntit kame,
A box, a brooch, a gowden pin,
And learnt her how to put them in;
Then shawed her fashion's newest rig,
And how to crisp and curl a wig,—
Wi' meikle mair, ye needna doubt,
A countra lass kent nought about;
Till through the countra, kirk, and clachan,
She turned the tap and ton o' fashion.

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!

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;

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

Oh! luckless, perverse, nameless failin'!
Tacket to every rank and callin',
To a' capacities thy lessons
Addressëd are, and a' professions.
Alike thy baleful influence clings
To cobbler's stalls and courts o' kings;
Thou lead'st the righteous aft astray,
The virgin green and maiden gray,
Till scarce a lifetime can atone
For what some thoughtless moment's done.
But if thou meanest to do right,
Or I've found favour in thy sight,
Oh! never saw thy wil'-kail seed
Near by the poet's houseless head,
Or let his dreams ken aught about ye,
Alas, he's fraiks enow without ye.