University of Virginia Library

Now Sandy was a clever chiel,
And could baith read and write fu' weel;
Had thoughts on things baith in and out—
Kent mair than ony herd about:
At sic like wark as he profest,
Was never hinmost, if no' best.
He ance a day could dance and sing,
And on the pipes play mony a spring.
But love, the bane o' high and low,
That shoots the shepherd and the beau,
Had hurt his peace, but men't his pen,
Although he ne'er let ony ken:
For Poverty, wi' iron claw,
That cauldrife rook that paiks us a',
Had chilled his hopes and dimm'd his views:
He for a helpmate woo'd the muse.
Nature, through a' her varied hue,
To him had charms for ever new.
He aft would sing his lassie's praise,
Wi' a' his native burns and braes,
And link them up in rustic rhyme,
To answer his loud chaunter's time:
Or sing, in rude and bolder lays,
Some follies o' our modern days.
But where the social band was met,
He ne'er was seen to gloom or fret,
'Twas there he herriet pleasure's nest,
And couped his cap up wi' the best,
Till, saft and clear, like morning dew,
The flights o' wit and humour flew.
Or if a frien' did stand in need
O' help by either word or deed,
He ne'er was sweir a han' to len'
And deemed it siller's noblest en';
That gart himsel' whiles be negleckit,
And by the warldly disrespeckit.

But Betty whiles would guess a part,—
For love by looks can judge the heart.
They baith were bairns brought up thegither,
And aye were unco pack wi' ither.
When at the school he took her han',
Or cleant her claes if she had faun;
And wi' his plaid would screen the show'r,
Ere love to plague had catch'd the pow'r.
When she to milk the ewes had gane,
He cam and bure the leglen hame;
Or at the bught she ne'er thought lang,
While he tauld o'er some tale or sang;
And lent her buiks to read at leisure,
Syne talk'd them o'er wi' meikle pleasure,
Till words and thoughts begat a kinship
O' ties mair tender far than frien'ship.

But Kate saw soon, wi' wily e'e,
And thought that sic things shouldna be;
Their bairn ta'en up wi' a herd laddie,
And cootlan by their lanes already.
So she was now kept close within;
Her mither aye had tow to spin,
Till love and learnin' a' gaed way.
At the neist term, ne'er asked to stay,
He hired him wi' a neibour man,
And saw but Betty now and than.

Sae it was a' but fair and right,
That he should see her hame that night;
Jocosely spier'd whar she had been,
That she was gaun sae late at e'en;
And how the priest had chanced to turn
Afore he saw her owre the burn?
She hid her face, and tried to laugh,
And said, “She hadna been far aff.
Ye see that he has ta'en the rue,
But gif he's gane, I've gotten you.”
“But then,” quo he, “I'm no sae sonsie
To haud away the wights unchancie;
For fient a fay durst e'er appear
Sae lang as he was gaun you near.
Yet, rather than ye gang your lane,
I'll do my best to see ye hame.
But, bless me, Betty, gi'es your han',
Ye look as ye could hardly stan';
There's surely something wrang or ither,
Ye ne'er let ae sab wait anither.”
Kindly her han' and arm she gaed:
Awa they slipt but naething said.
Yet, in that silent situation,
For what would he hae changed his station?
Right fain would she hae tell't him a',
Yet something aye within said na.
The heart was fu, 'twould fain been out,
But couldna light on words to suit,—
Till memory stept across the min',
And waked the days o' auld lang syne.
The hawthorn yet stood on the brae
That shielt them mony a simmer day;
Whar the slee pyat wont to hap,
The lanely cushat cooin' sat.
Their seats and houses reared wi' care,
The stanes lay scattered here and there;
And saugh trees, planted by his han',
Waved high their taps, and hid the stran'.
What various thoughts the mind pourtrayed,—
His cheek to hers he saftly laid,
While sympathy, wi' simple haud,
Forgot that modesty forbad.
E'en waefu' “Ken,” with gratefu' e'e,
Wad lick her han' and whisk her knee,
Till she wad straik and clap his head,
Then joyfu' on the way he'd lead.
“O Bess! thir scenes are dear to me,
But doubly sae when blest wi' thee;
Dear as when hope the mind employs,
To picture scenes o' future joys:
Though simmer has withdrawn his beams,
They're aften present in my dreams,
Wi' a' the flow'ry birth o' May,
When we, like them, were young and gay.
Ilk hill and dale, and buss, and green,
Whispers how happy we hae been.
I fear they'll ne'er return again—
And pleasure past but heightens pain:
As wintry calms in mildest form,
Prove aft the prelude to a storm.
When ye war near I aye was glad,
And seemed to see ye aft when fled:
As music through the ear does thrill,
Though ceased, we seem to hear it still.
I kentna then, as I ken noo,
What ill the want o' wealth could do;
Or, if for't e'er my heart did ache,
'Twas only, truly, for thy sake.
Me, fondest fancy whiles would move,
To picture a' the joys o' love;
Till I my wishes could explain,
And some day ye would be my ain:
Then a' my fears to air wad gang—
Now tell me was I right or wrang?”
“It's no for me,” quo she, “to say
What may be done some ither day;
Nor can I weel, e'en now define
The thoughts, when young, that crossed my min';
But this I ken, as weel's yoursel',
That some gang daft when they hear tell:
And mair partic'larly my mither,
Whene'er she kens that we're thegither.
On marriage I'm no' fully bent,
Nor do I yet ken their intent;
But soon as I can guess their views,
I'll sen' ye twa lines o' the news.
Ye needna doubt—I'll no forget—
But, see! we're maist come to the yett;
Ye'd better turn.”—Quo he, “Ye'll mind,”
So kissed, shook han's, and parted kind;
While back he scoured out owre the bent,
And thought his journey no ill spent.

The paitrick whirred alang the ley,
The pliver whistled o'er the fey,
The bleater coursed aboon the bog,
Up the glens crap the lazy fog,
The saft win' shook the witherin' grass;
But Nature, in her hamely dress,
Wi' her habiliments laid by,
Can please us, when the hopes are high.
Amang his mountains bleak and bare,
He hugs himsel' wi' hamely fare,
And sleeps as soun' 'tween earthen wa's
As lords within their lofty ha's.