University of Virginia Library

O Cano' gate! poor elritch hole,
What loss, what crosses dost thou thole;
London and death gars thee look droll,
And hing thy head,
Wow, but thou has e'en a cauld coal
To blaw indeed!
Hear me, ye hills, and every glen,
Ilk craig, ilk cleugh, and hollow den,
And echo shrill, that a' may ken
The waefou thud
By rackless death, who came unseen
To Lucky Wood.
She's dead o'er true, she's dead and gane,
Left us and Willie burd alane,
To bleer and greet, to sob and mane,
And rug our hair,
Because we'll ne'er see her again,
For evermair.
She gaed as fait as a new prin,
And kept her houssy snod and been;
Her pewther glanc'd upo' your een
Like siller plate;
She was a donsy wife, and clean
Without debate.
It did ane good to see her stools,
Her board, fire side, and facing tools;
Rax, chandlers, tangs, and her fire-shools,
Basket wi' bread;
Poor facers now may chew pea-hools,
Since Lucky's dead.
She ne'er ga' in a lawin fause,
Nor stoups a' froth aboon the hause,
Nor kept dow'd tip within her waws,
But reaming swats;
She never ran sour jute, because
It gi'es the bats.
She had the gate sae well to please,
With gratis beef, dry fish, or cheese,
Which kept our purses ay at ease,
And health in tift,
And lent her fresh nine-gallon trees,
A hearty lift.
She ga' us aft hail legs of lamb,
And did nae hain her mutton ham;
Then ay at Yule, whane'er we came,
A bra' goose-pye;
And was nae that good belly-baum
Nane dare deny.
The writer lads fou well may mind her,
Furthy was she; her luck design'd her
Their common mither, sure nane kinder
Ever brake bread;
She has na' left her maik behind her,
But now she's dead.
To the sma' hours we ast sat still,
Nick'd round our toasts and snishing mill;
Good cakes we wanted ne'er at will,
The best of bread,
Which aften cost us mony a gill,
To Aikenhead.
Could our saut tears like Clyde down rin,
And had we cheeks like Corra's lin,
That a' the warld might hear the din
Rair frae ilk head;
She was the wale of a' her kin,
But now she's dead.
O Lucky Wood! 'tis hard to bear
The loss; but oh! we maun forbear;
Yet sall thy memory be dear
While blooms a tree,
And after ages bairns will speir
'Bout thee and me.

EPITAPH.

Beneath this sod
Lies Lucky Wood,
Whom a' men might put faith in:
Who was na' sweir,
While she winn'd hear,
To cram our wames for naething.