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1

THE FORTUNATE SHEPHERDESS, By MR. ALEXANDER ROSS School-Master at LOCHLEE.

A PASTORAL TALE;

In Three CANTOS, in the Scotish Dialect.

To which is Added A Few SONGS by the same Author.

5

To Mr Alexander Ross at Lochlee, Author of The Fortunate Shepherdess, and other Poems, in the Broad Scotch Dialect.

O Ross, thou wale of hearty cocks,
Sae crouse and canty with thy jokes,
Thy hamely auld warld muse provokes
Me, for a while,
To ape our good plain country folks
In verse and stile.
Sure never carle was half sae gabby,
E'er since the winsome days of Habby.
O mayst thou ne'er gang clung or shabby,
Nor miss thy snaker!
Or I'll call Fortune, Nasty Drabby,
And say, Pox take her.
O may the roupe ne'er roust thy weason!
May thrist thy thrapple never gizzen!
But bottled ale in mony a dozen,
Aye lade thy gantry!
And fouth of vivres, all in season,
Plenish thy pantry!
Lang may thy stevin fill with glee
The glens and mountains of Lochlee,
Which were right gowsty but for thee,
Whose sangs enamour
Ilk lass, and teach wi' melody
The rocks to yamour.
Ye shak your head; but, o' my fegs,
Ye've set auld Scota on her legs.
Lang had she lyen, with beffs and flegs
Bumbaz'd and dizzie.
Her fiddle wanted strings and pegs.
Wae's me! poor hizzie!
6

Since Allan's death, nae body car'd
For anes to speer how Scota far'd;
Nor plack nor thristled turner war'd,
To quench her drouth;
For, frae the cottar to the laird,
We all run South.
The Southland chiels indeed hae mettle,
And brawly at a sang can ettle;
Yet we right couthily might settle
On this side Forth.
The devil pay them with a pettle,
That slight the North.
Our country leed is far frae barren,
'Tis even right pithy and auldfarran.
Our sells are neiper-like, I warran,
For sense and smergh;
In kittle times, when faes are yarring,
We're no thought ergh.
O bonny are our greensward hows,
Where through the birks the burny rows,
And the bee bums, and the ox lows,
And saft winds rusle,
And shepherd-lads, on sunny knows,
Blaw the blythe fusle.
'Tis true, we Norlans manna fa'
To eat sae nice, or gang sae bra',
As they that come from far-awa';
Yet sma's our skaith:
We've peace (and that's well worth it a')
And meat and claith.
Our fine new-fangle sparks, I grant ye,
Gie poor auld Scotland mony a taunty;
They're grown sae ugertfu' and vaunty,
And capernoited,
They guide her like a canker'd aunty,
That's deaf and doited.
Sae comes of ignorance, I trow;
'Tis this that crooks their ill-fa'r'd mou'
With jokes sae course, they gar fouk spew
For downright skonner.
For Scotland wants na sons enew
To do her honour.
7

I here might gie a skreed of names,
Dawties of Heliconian Dames!
The foremost place Gavin Douglas claims,
That pawky priest.
And wha can match the First King James
For sang or jest?
Montgomery grave, and Ramsay gay,
Dunbar, Scot, Hawthornden, and mae
Than I can tell; for o' my fay,
I maun brak aff;
'Twould take a live-lang summer-day
To name the half.
The saucy chiels—I think they ca' them
Critics—the muckle sorrow claw them,
(For mense nor manners ne'er could awe them
Frae their presumption)
They need not try thy jokes to fathom,
They want rumgumption.
But ilka Mearns and Angus bairn
Thy tales and sangs by heart shall learn;
And chiels shall come frae yont the Cairn—
-a-mounth, right vousty,
If Ross will be so kind as share in
Their pint at Drousty.
9

HELENORE

OR THE FORTUNATE SHEPHERDESS.

INVOCATION.

Say, Scota, Thou that anes upon a day
Gar'd Allan Ramsay's hungry hart strings play
The merriest sangs that ever yet were sung,
Pity anes mair, for I'm out-throw as clung.
'Twas that grim gossip, chandler-chafted want,
With threed-bair claithing, and an ambry scant,
Made him cry o' thee to blaw throw his pen
Wi' leed that well might help him to come ben,
An' crack amo' the best of ilka sex,
An' shape his houghs to gentle bows and becks.
He wan thy heart, well wordy o't, poor man.
Take yet another gangrell by the hand;
As gryt's my mister, an' my duds as bair,
And I as sib as he was, ilka hair.
Mak me but half as canny, there's no fear,
Tho' I be auld, but I'll yet gather gear.
10

O gin thou hadst not heard him first o'er well,
When he got maughts to write The Shepherd's Tale,
I meith ha had some chance of landing fair,
But O that sang, the mither of my care!
What wad I geen, that thou hadst put thy thumb
Upo' the well tauld tale, till I had come,
Then led my hand alongst it line for line!
O to my dieing day, how I wad shine,
An' as far yont it as syn Habbi plaid,
Or Ga'in on Virgil matchless skill display'd!
An' mair I wadna wiss. But Ramsay bears
The gree himsel, an' the green laurels wears.
Well mat he brook them, for piece ye had spar'd
The task to me, Pate meith na been a laird.
'Tis may be better, I's tak what ye gee:
Ye're nae toom-handed gin your heart be free;
But I's be willing as ye bid me write—
Blind horse, they say, ride hardy to the fight,
And by good hap may come awa' but scorn:
They are na kempers a' that shear the corn.
Then Scota heard, and said: “Your rough-spun ware
Sounds but right douff an' fowsome to my ear.
Do ye pretend to write like my ain bairn,
Or onie ane that wins beyont the Kairn?
Ye're far mistaen gin ye think sick a thought.
The Gentle Shepherd's nae sae easy wrought;
There's scenes an' acts, there's drift an' there's design,
An' a' maun like a new-ground whittle shine;
Sick wimpl'd wark would crack a pow like thine.”
“Kind mistris,” says I, “gin this be your fear,
Charge nae mair shot than what the piece 'll bear.
Something but scenes or acts, that kittle game,
Yet what may please, bid me sit down an' frame.”
11

“Gae then,” she says, “nor deave me with your dinn;
Puff—I inspire you, sae you may begin.
If ye, o'er forthersome, turn tapsie turvy,
Blame your ain haste, an' say not that I spur ye;
But sound and seelfu', as I bid you, write,
An' ready hae your pen when I indite.
Speak my ain leed, 'tis gueed auld Scots I mean;
Your Southren gnaps I count not worth a preen.
We've words a fouth, that we can ca' our ain,
Tho' frae them now my childer sair refrain,
An' are to my gueed auld proverb confeerin—
Neither gueed fish nor flesh, nor yet sa't herrin.
Gin this ye do, an' lyn your rime wi' sense,
But ye'll make friends of fremmet fouk, fa kens?
Wi' thir injunctions ye may set you down.”
“Mistris,” says I, “I'm at your bidding boun.”
Sae I begins, my pen into my hand,
Just ready hearkning as she should command.
But then about her there was sic a dinn,
Some seeking this, some that, some out, some in,
That it's nae wonder, tho' I aft gae wrang,
An' for my ain set down my neiper's sang;
For hundreds mair were learning at her school,
And some wrote fair, an' some like me wrote foul.

CANTO I.

When yet the leal an' ae-fauld shepherd life
Was nae oergane by faucit, sturt an' strife,
But here and there part o' that seelfu' race
Kept love an' lawty o' their honest face,
Piece long ere than, lowns had begun to spread,
An' riefing hereship was become a trade;
12

Yet of the honest sort, that did nae ken
Naething but that was downright fair an' plain,
A sonsie pair of lad an' lass was found,
Wha honest love wi' halie wedlock crown'd.
For joining hands they just were feer for feer,
An' liv'd to other, as A to B as near.
For bonyness an' other good out-throw,
They were as right as ever trade the dew.
The lad was Colen, and the lass was Jean;
An' how soon as the jimp three raiths was gane,
The dentyest wean bony Jean fuish hame
To flesh or blood that ever had a claim.
The name the wean gat was Helenore,
That her ain grandame brooked lang before.
Gryt was the care an' tut'ry that was ha'en,
Baith night an' day, about the bony wean.
The jizzen-bed wi' rantree leaves was sain'd,
An' sicklike craft as the auld grandys kend;
Jean's paps wi' sa't and water washen clean,
For fear her milk gat wrang fan it was green;
Then the first hippen to the green was flung,
And unko words thereat baith said an' sung;
A burning coal with the hett tangs was ta'en
Frae out the ingle mids, well brunt an' clean,
An' thro' the corsy-belly letten fa',
For fear the wean should be ta'en awa'.
Dowing an' growing was the dayly prayer,
An' Nory tented was wi' unko care.
The oddest fike an' fisle that e'er was seen,
13

Was by the mither an' twa grandys ta'en;
An' the twa bobbys were baith fidging fain,
That they had gotten an oye o' their ain.
An' bony Nory answer'd a' their care,
For well she throove, and halesome was an' fair;
As clear an' calour as a water trout,
An' with her growth her beauty ay did sprout.
When Helenore a gangrel now was grown,
And had begun to toddle about the town,
An honest neiper man, Ralph was his name,
That liv'd on the same tenement with them,
A dainty stirrah had, twa years out gane,
An' he was now well ta'en the rode him lane.
The calland's name was Rosalind, an' they
Yeed hand in hand together at the play.
An' as the billy had the start of yeeld,
To Nory he was ay a tenty beeld:
Wad help her up, fan she wad chance to fa',
Wad gather gowans, an' string them on a straw,
An' knit about her bony neck an' arms,
An' be as tenty to keep off all harms,
As ever hen upo' the midden-head
Wad tent her chuckens frae the greedy glaid.
'Twas then that Cupid ettled aff a shaft,
An' stang the weans, strangers to his craft,
That baith their hearts bett wi' the common stound,
But had na pain, but pleasure o' the wound.
As they grew up, alike their liking grew,
As ever grass wet with the morning dew:
14

Like was their pleasure, an' alike their pain,
An' baith alike were angry an' were fain.
When they were able now to herd the ewes,
They yeed together thro' the heights an' hows;
Whiloms they tented, an' sometimes they plaid,
An' sometimes rashen hatts or buckies made.
But on a day, as Lindy was fu' thrang
Weaving a snood, an' thinking on nae wrang,
An' baith curcudduch, an' their heads bow'd down,
Auld sleeket lowrie fetcht a wyllie roun,
An' claught a lamb anoner Nory's care.
She spy'd the thief, an' gae the reefu' rair;
Lindy bangs up, an' flang his snood awa',
An' i' the haste of rinning catcht a fa',
Flaught-bred upon his face, an' there he lay;
Nory's pursuing as fast as she may.
The cries an' yaumers gar'd the thief let gang
The sakeless beast, but not without great wrang;
For 'tweish twa hillocks the poor lambie lies,
An' ay fell forthert as it shoope to rise.
But that was naething to the dreary knell
Yeed till her heart fan her dear Lindy fell.
Fan she came too, he never made to steer,
Nor answer gae to ought that she could speer;
Like to distract, she lifted up his head,
Cry'd “Lindy, Lindy, wae's me, are ye dead?”
Nae answer yet, for he had fa'en aswoon,
His face got sick a dird upo' the ground:
An awful hole was dung intill his brow,
An' lappert bleed was smeer'd around his mou.
15

But howsomever, in a little wee,
Himsel he gathers, and begins to see;
An' first he spies poor Nory greeting sair,
An' says, “O 'oman, fat makes a' your care?
Has the onbeast your lambie ta'en awa'?”
“Nae that,” she says, “but 'cause ye gotten a fa'.
Up by the lambie's lying yonder styth;
But makesna, that it's nae your sell I'm blyth.
For fan I fand you, I thought haleumlie
That ye wad never speak again to me:
I spake to you, but ye nae answer made,
An' then with baith my hands I rais'd your head;
But never a sinacle of life was there,
An' I was just the neest thing to despair.
But well's my heart that ye are come alist;
The lamb's awa', an' it'll never be mist.
We'll ablins get a flyte, an' ablins nane;
We'll say it was fan ye fell o' the stane,
An' hurt sae sair as cud na rise your lane.
Try gin ye'll creep unto this strypie here,
An' I will wash your face wi' water clear.”
But a' her washing cud na stench the bleed;
In haste then Nory for the stench-girss yeed:
For these auld-warld fouks had wond'rous can
Of herbs that were baith good for beast an' man,
An' did wi' care the canny knack impart
Unto their bairns, an' taught them a' the art.
Back with the halesome girss in haste she hy'd,
An' tentyly unto the sair apply'd.
The bleed was stanch'd, an' syne that stench'd their care;
A plantane leaf was clapped o' the sair.
Now Lindy is as canty as a midge,
An' Nory at it did for blythness fidge;
Took frae her pouch a glack of bread an' cheese,
16

And with a smirtle unto Lindy gees;
He takes an' eats, an' Nory does the same,
Then look their ewes, an' back unto their game.
By this time Lindy is right well shot out,
'Twixt nine and ten, I think, or there about;
Nae bursen bailch, nae wandought or misgrown,
But plump an' swack an' like an apple round;
As onie kurch his hair baith white and lang
Like tap of lint down o'er his shoulders hang;
His cheeks they were as onie cherie red,
An' his twa eyn were clear as onie bead;
Fu o' good nature, sharp an' snell with a',
An' kibble grown at shaking of a fa';
Nae billie like him sell a' round about,
That mows or earnest durst gee him a clout.
An' Nory was the bonnyest lassie grown
That ever was in landert or in town.
A hellzier she than Lindy younger was,
But for her growth was much about a pass.
Her hair, just like the glowing threeds of goud,
Frae lug to lug in bony ringlets row'd;
Pure red and white, her mither o'er again,
An' bonyer, gin bonyer coud a been.
You coud na look your sairing at her face,
It was so cheary an' so fu' of grace;
Her cherry cheeks you might bleed with a strae;
Syne she was swak an' souple like a rae;
Swack like an eel an' calour like a trout,
An' was become a fairly round about:
17

Whan she among the neiper bairns was seen,
At greedy-glaid or warpling o' the green,
She 'clipst them a', an' gar'd them look like draff,
For she was like the corn, an' they the caff.
The wives about, envy'd the lassie's fare,
An' wiss'd her wraking, but begecked were.
As she an' Lindy fa' into their teens,
Their liking ripens, an' its pith maintains.
But with mair wyles an' can they bet the flame,
An' with their years as fast grew up their shame.
The other hirds young Lindy treat with scorn,
An' mair an' mair stroove to blaw up the horn;
As gin together clouds o' them had gane
To play the penny- or the putting-stane,
If Lindy chanc'd, as synle was his lot,
To play a feckless or a wrangous shot,
Jeering they'd say, “Poor Lindy's mauchtless grown!
But maksna, it's a browst that he hath brown.
Gin he 'bout Nory lesser fike had made,
He hadna been sae smearless at the trade.”
For they were a' just like to eat their thumb
That he wi' her sae far ben should a come.
Nor was't a fairly, for she well meith be,
Gentle or semple, a wife to ony he,
For flesh an' bleed: what needs there speaking mair?
This was the grudge, an' ground of a' their care.
The lasses too, for they were ilka ane
Wi' Lindy's favour and his beauty ta'en,
18

Taunted poor Nory, an' wad jeering say,
They kend where they were seen the tither day.
Now Nory was as modest as a fleuk,
An' at their jeering wist na how to look.
An' she thereon aft i' the dumps wad be,
When after that she chanc'd her jo to see.
Which thrawart carriage gar'd him wonder sair,
And speer what was the ground of this her care.
Wi' blushes that spake out her love an' pain,
She made reply, “I's warrant ye may ken.”
“Well, Nory,” said he, “never fash your thumb;
Gin I ha'd heal, I's gar them a' sing dumb.
An' gin I get but muckle o' their dinn,
I's try whilk o' us has the thickest skin.
It sets them well into our thrang to spy!
They'd better whisht, for fear I raise a fry.
An' for the geeglits that gae to the glen,
An' night an' day are floaning o' the men,
An' never like but o' the lads to crack,
An' are as light as ever the queen's plack,
They well may had their tongues, I'm sure that they
Had never yet the like of us to say.
Tell Jenny Cock, an' she jeer onie mair,
Ye ken where Dick curfuffl'd a' her hair,
Took aff her snood, an' syne fan she yeed hame,
Boot say she tint it, nor durst tell for shame.
That word, I think, will sair to stap her mou',
An' I my sell can tell that that was true.
But fat's the matter, let them say their fill;
Gin they speak truth, they canna speak nae ill;
19

An' gin they lee, they'll hae the warse them sells:
Let them ne'er halt till they win hood an' bells.”
Thus he wad Nory cocker up again,
An' ease her stomach o' its dreery pain.
For when love dwells atweesh twa lovers leal,
They neither gueed nor ill frae ither heal:
Whate'er betides them, it relieves their heart
Fan they get scouth their dolor to impart.
But for as well as they had learn't to heal,
Their courtship wad na langer now conceal.
Baith mill an' smithy had it now fu' ryffe,
That Lindy an' Nory wad be man an' wife.
An' the auld fouks themsells were mair nor fain,
Whan o' the bargain they began to ken.
But tho' the young fouks liked other sair,
They never yet had dint o'warld's care;
For marriage was as far out o' their sight
As their intrigue was honest and upright.
They never minded mair but meet an' daut,
An' thought the time but scrimp enough for that.
Yet on a time when they their tryst had made
To meet an' crack aneth a birken shade,
An' were well set, and kisses yeed ding-dang,
Says Lindy: “We maun marry now ere lang.
Fouk will speak o's, an' fash us wi' the kirk,
An' we be found together i' the merk.”
“I ken na,” quo she, “we're o'er young, I fear,
Of house or hadding yet to hae the care.
Ye see how Rob an' Jenny's gane, syn they
Hae pitten o'er their heads their merry day.
Ye canna see, I'm sure, a poorer pair;
For back an' belly, they're sae pinch'd an' bare;
20

They've gotten a geet that stills na night nor day,
Their ae beast cow I saw them lately flea,
That for plain poortith lairt intill a bogg;
Besides, they hae nae either ew or hogg.
Sick snibs as that may sair to let us see
'Tis better for us to be loose an' free.
A freer life, I'm sure, we canna lead;
Our meat an' claith are baith bound till our head:
When down's our head, as we hae heard it said,
Our house is happed, an' our mailen paid.”
Quo he: “I grant 'tis a' true that ye speak,
But yet ae swallow does na summer mak.
An' we hadd heal, we need na dridder mair;
Ye ken we winna be set down sae bare;
An' then at hame the stocking is nae sma,
An' nane to seek or get it, but we twa.”
“That's true and true enough; but yet,” quo she,
“There is nae time o'ergane for you or me.”
“But what if some mischief shou'd cut us short,”
Quo he, “an' after a' should spoil our sport?
What if some wealthy cheeld should chance to come,
Just ready for a wife, as ay there's some,
An' wi' your father sick an ear shud get,
As gar him strick the iron when it is het?
How stand poor I, o'erta'en wi' sick a trick,
To look like blunty, an' the fup-shaft lick?”
“Na, na,” quo she, “ye need na hae sick fear:
They ken ye like me, an' they ken ye've gear.
An' gin ye wad but shoot it by a while,
I ken the thing that wad your fears beguile;
But I think shame because it speaks of me—”
“Hang shame,” quo Lindy, “an' be frank an' free.”
“Well, nae lang syne, fan our auld fouks were laid,
An' taking their ain crack into their bed,
Weening that I was sleeping, they began,
21

An' spak about my getting of a man.
My father first did at my mither speer,
‘Heary, is Nory fifteen out the year?’
‘A well I wat is she,’ my mither says;
‘Had she a woman's wit, she has her days:
Ha, never an hour does Nory want, lat's see,
But bare twa months her synteen out to be;
An' gin ye mind, I but nineteen was out,
Fan we forgather'd, or just thereabout.’
‘I mind it well enough, an' so I may:
At well I danc'd wi' you at your birthday.’
‘Ay, heary,’ quo she, ‘now but that's awa'.’
‘Dainta,’ quo he, ‘let never warse befa':
We're well enough, we hae baith meat an' claith,
An' o'er bauld to complain at ither skaith:
We manna ay be young.’ Quo she, ‘That's true.
But fat think ye of Nory's courtship now?
Lindy an' she I hear are unko thrang;
'Tis now nae secret, the news is gaing ding-dang.
Auld Magy Procter speer'd at me last day.
I said I kent na, it might e'en be sae;
Young fouks 'll ay be looking them about,
An' that they're doing sae, I mak no doubt.’
Quo he, ‘But heary, what do ye think o't?’
My mither says, ‘I wiss I gae my coat
That it were true. I like the lad right well,
For I like ay the verity to tell;
He may well sair, the best day e'er she raise.’
Quo' he, ‘I nothing ken to his dispraise.
He's a gueed lad, an' that's the best of a';
An' for the geer, his father well can draw;
For he's nae boss, six score o' lambs the year
22

Is heartning gueed, the match is feer to feer.’
‘A's true,’ quo she, ‘but we'll behad a wee;
She's nae well knit, altho' that shot she be;
She'll be mair stivage, heary, trust ye me,
Gin she a toment yet be latten be.’
‘Ye's get your will,’ quo he. ‘'Tis nae far back
Syn Ralph an' I about it had a crack;
They like the bargain just as well as we,
An' it's nae matter when the wedding be.’
Kiss o' thy mou for such a couthy tale.”
Reply'd the lad, “I wat, thou's get it leel.
Well mat thou thram, for syn thou's been so free,
I for a little fyle shall lat thee be;
Tho' sair against my will, for ye may ken,
T'had drink frae drouth, is sair against the grain.”
Now Flaviana was the country's name
That ay this bony water-side did claim,
Frae yellow sands, that trindl'd down the same.
The fouks were wealthy, store was a' their stock;
With this, but little siller, did they trock.
Frae mang the stock his honour gat his fa',
An' got but little cunzie, or nane awa'.
The water fecklie on a level slede,
Wi' little dinn, but couthy, what it made.
On ilka side the trees grew thick an' strang,
An' a' the boughs wi' birds were in a sang;
On every side, a full bowshot an' mair,
The green was even, gowany an' fair;
With easy sklent, on every side the braes
To a good height, wi' scatter'd busses raise;
Wi' goats an' sheep aboon, an' cows below,
These bony braes all in a swarm did go.
23

No property these honest shepherds pled;
All kept alike, an' all in common fed.
But ah, misfortune! while they fear'd no ill,
A band of kettrins did their forrest fill;
On ilka side they took it in with care,
And i' the ca' nor cow nor ewe did spare;
The sakeless shepherds stroove with might an' main
To turn the dowie chase, but all in vain;
They had nae maughts for sick a toilsome task,
For bare-fac'd robb'ry had put off the mask.
Amo' the herds that plaid a maughty part,
Young Lindy kyth'd himsel wi' hand an' heart.
But mair nor master maws the field, an' sae
It far'd wi' him, poor man, that hapless day.
Three fallows bauld, like very lions strong,
Were a' his wrack, an' wrought him a' his wrang;
On him laid hands, whan he now dow na mair,
An' wi' teugh raips they band him hard an' sair,
An' left him there, till they shou'd cast about,
An' drive him hame before them i' the rout.
Ere they came back frae dighting o' the reer,
'Twas now as dark as it afore was clear;
They sought about, their seeking was in vain,
An' Lindy's left, poor man, to pine wi' pain.
The fouk at hame by this time hae their care,
An' that the gueeds are byding wonder sair.
To hillock heads an' knolls man, wife an' wean,
To spy about them gather now ilk ane;
Some o' them running here, some o' them there,
An' a' in outmost mazerment an' care.
Nory, poor 'oman, had some farther gane,
For Lindy fly'd, an' standin' was her lane,
24

Whan up there came twa shepherds out o' breath,
Rais'd like, an' blawing, an' as haw as death.
“Now,” Nory says, “what's been the cause the day
The herds an' gueeds hae made sae lang a stay?”
“Of gueeds an' herds we need nae speak nae mair;
Dowie's this day,” an' gae the reefu' rair.
“They're a' made hership, an' for ought we ken,
The herds may a' be feckly ta'en or slain.”
At thir sad news poor Nory taks the gate,
What legs could lift, tho' it was dark an' late;
She ran an' skream'd, an' roove out at her hair,
An' to the glens the gainest gate can fare.
Ay as the lads came up, the news they spread;
I sanna tell you what effect it had;
For sick a ruther raise, 'tweesh riving hair,
Skreeding o' kurches, crying dool an' care,
Wi' thud for thud upon their bare breast bane,
To see't an' hear't wad rive a heart of stane.
Poor Nory rins till she dow rin nae mair,
An' syne fa's down; judge gin her heart was sair.
Out at her mow it just was like to bout
Intill her lap at every ither thaut.
As lang as she had maughts to rin or gang,
“O Lindy! Lindy!” was her dowie sang;
“Well Lindy, bony Lindy, art thou dead?
I's never frae this hillock lift my head.
O dead, come also an' be kind to me,
An' frae this sad back-birn of sorrow free!”
Cry what she liked, Lindy cud na hear,
For she for that a quite wrang course did steer,
Twa miles at least, for he had follow'd on,
Till by the ruffians he was sae undone.
In this poor pickle heartless Nory lies,
Rowing her head, amind to never rise.
25

The night grew merk, the mist began to fa',
The howlet screekt, an' that was warst of a';
For ilka time the onbeast gae the yell,
In spite of grief, it gae her heart a knell.
At last, what wi' the fright, and what wi' grief,
An' soupet spirits hopeless o' relief,
Sleep bit an' bit crap in upon her wae,
An' a' was quiet for an hour or sae.
But yet her heart was ay upo' the flought;
Sleepin' an' wakin', Lindy fill'd her thought.
Sair was she catcht, for ilka now an' then
She'd start an' fumper, an' fa' o'er again.
At last her dolor gets the upper hand,
She starts to foot, but has na maughts to stand:
Hallach'd an' dameist, an' scarce at her sell,
Her limbs they faicked under her an' fell.
Fan she had thought a wee, the dowie knell
Strak till her heart for Lindy, sharp an' snell.
It's yet pit merk, the yerd a' black about,
An' the night fowl began again to shout.
Thro' ilka limb an' lith the terror thirl'd
At ilka time the dowie monster skirl'd.
At last the welcome sky began to clear,
The birds to chirm, an' day-light to appear.
This laid her eery thoughts, but yet her pain
For her dear jo did still its strength maintain.
When light cou'd sair her to see round about,
Where she might be she now began to doubt.
Nae meiths she kent, ilk hillock head was new,
An' a' thing unko that was in her view.
Nor was it fairly, for she had na been
So far before, or e'er sick glens had seen;
For ne'er till yet by three lang miles an' mair
26

Had errands led her to the hills to fare.
On ilka hand the hills were stay an' steep,
An' shou'd she tak them, she behov'd to creep.
The fear o' Lindy wad na let her turn;
The frightful cleughs made her to sigh an' mourn.
An' now for faut and mister she was spent,
Like water weak, an' dwebell like a bent.
Yet try't she maun, her heart it wad na sair
To think but Lindy to gae hame nae mair.
Up thro' the cleughs, where bink on bink was set,
Scrambling wi' hands and feet she taks the gate;
Twa hours she took, the langest o' the day,
Dow what she mought, ere she clamb up the brae.
At length, whan she unto the height had won,
What meets her there but the sweet morning sun?
Breathless and feckless, there she sits her down,
An' will an' willsome looked her around.
O' this sae couthy blink she was right fain,
An' for a wee was eased of her pain.
But yet the heat sae master'd a' her pith,
That she grew tabetless, an' swarft therewith;
An' for a while shot out baith hand an' foot,
As she had been wi' the elf-arrow shot.
At last the dwam fled over bit an' bit,
And she begins to draw her limbs an' sit;
An' by the help of an auld standin' stane,
To which she did her weary body lean,
She wins to foot, an' swavering makes to gang,
An' meets a plump of averens ere lang;
27

Right yape she yoked to the pleasing feast,
An' lay an' eated half an hour at least.
The feckless meltet did her heart o'erset,
'Cause nature frae't did litle sust'nance get:
Sick, sick she grows; syne after that a wee,
Whan she o'ercame, the tear fell in her eye;
An' till her sell she made this heavy main:
“Propines o' this I'll get nae mair again
Frae my dear Lindy. Monie a time has thou
Of these to me thy pouches fashen fou'.
Alas, poor man! for aught that I can see,
This day thou lying in cauld bark may'st be;
And wae's me for't! But I shall never stint,
Till o' the truth the verity be kent;
Tho' to the warld's end my race should be,
Dead or alive, thy bony face I'll see.”
Sae up she rises, and about she spies,
An' lo! beneath, a bony burnie lies,
Out-throw the mist atweesh her an' the sun,
That shin'd an' glanc'd in ilka pool an' lyn.
A hail half mile she had at least to gang,
Thro' birns, an' pits, an' scrabs, an' heather lang:
Yet putt an' row, wi' mony a weary twine,
She wins at last to where the pools did shine.
Along the burn, that bushed was wi' trees,
A bony easy beaten road she sees.
Amo' the bushes birdies made their mang,
Till a' the cloughs about with musick rang.
They seem'd to do their best to ease the fair,
But she for that was o'er far gane in care.
Yet with the pleasant roadie she was ta'en,
An' down the burnie takes the road her lane,
28

Weening at length she meith some towns espie,
An' sae amo' them for her lover try.
Now very sair the sun began to beat,
An' she was almaist scunfest with the heat;
The summer cauts were dancing here an' there,
An' clouds of midges reeling in the air;
The streams of sweat an' tears thro' ither ran
Adown her cheeks, an' she to fag began;
Wi' wae, an' faut, an' meethness o' the day,
Sae sair beset she was that down she lay.
For her gueed luck, a wie bit aff the pead
Grew there a tree wi' branches thick an' bred;
The shade beneath, a canness-bred out-throw,
Held aff the sunbeams frae a bony how.
Here she resolves to rest, an' may be die,
An' lean'd her head unto the kindly tree.
Her hand she had upon her haffet laid,
An' fain, fain was she of the coolriff shade.
Short while she i' this calour posture lay,
When heavy sleep beguil'd her o' her wae.
Three hours that bliss to her was length'n'd out,
When by odd chance a huntsman came about,
A gallant youth, an' O, sae finely clade!
In his right hand a bow of steel he had;
A bony page behind, close at his heel,
Carry'd a shafe of arrows shode with steel;
A knapsack white, compactly made an' feat,
Slung o'er his head, well lyn'd with gentle meat.
As this young squire on haste is stending by,
Wi' sydlings look he sees a woman ly;
Jumps in the gate, but when he saw her face,
So sweet, so angel like, so fu' o' grace,
He durst na budge, nor speak, nor gang awa',
But stood stane-still, like picture on the wa':
29

His full of looking he could never get,
For on sick looks his eyn he never set,
Tho' bludder'd sair wi' strypes of tears, an' sweat.
As he's thus gazing, Cupid draws a shaft,
An' prov'd himsell a master of the craft:
Wi' sick a twang he bent his golden bow,
The red-het arrow pierc'd him thro' and throw.
Nae eek frae Nory's hame-spun kirtle came,
To catch the hunter, or to beet the flame.
Plain was her gown, the hew was of the ewe,
An' tatter'd like, for she was on the grow.
'Tis true her head had been made up fu' sleek
The tither day, an' well put on her keek:
But a' her bra's were out of order now,
Her hair in taits hang down upon her brow;
To her left shoulder, too, her keek was worn,
Her gartens tint, her shoon clean out an' torn.
Naething remain'd to put her in disguise,
She makes the conquest there, just as she lies,
Nor had a dart yet flown out from her eyes.
Some skair he judg'd the beauty fair had got,
An' met wi' something hapless in her lot;
An' thought that she e'en by her sell meith be,
An' if awaken'd, fiercelins aff meith flee;
For she was aften starting thro' her sleep,
An' fumpering as gin she made to weep.
Still he looks on; at length hersel she rais'd,
An' round about wi' consternation gaz'd.
Upo' the squire as soon's she set her eyes,
Up till her feet she bangs wi' great surprise,
An' was to run; he claught her by the claise,
An' said: “Sweet lassie, huly, an' ye please.
Ye's get nae wrang, byde only till I speer
What ye be seeking, an' what fuish you here.”
30

The grip detain'd her, but she cud na speak;
Her tongue for fear tint fettle in her cheek.
Then saftly still the squire intreats her stay.
At last she gae a sob, and says, “Hegh hey!
O let me gang, for I hae done nae ill.”
“There's nane here thinks it,” says he, “but stay still.
Tell me what ails you, an' I'll right your wrang,
Be what it will; I sanna hadd you lang.”
“My wrang! my wrang! gryt is my wrang,” she says,
“Gin you heard tell of Flaviana's braes;
Frae them am I, 'tis there our wrang is wrought,
Wrang unforsair'd, an' that we never bought:
Rank kettren were they that did us the ill;
They toom'd our braes, that swarming store did fill;
An' mair nor that, I fear our hirds are ta'en,
An' it's sair born o' me that they're slain;
For they great dacker made, an' tulzi'd strang,
Ere they wad yield an' let the cattle gang.”
An' a' the time the tears ran down her cheek,
An' pinked o'er her chin upon her keek.
To see her grief his heart was like to brak,
An' he intreated she wad courage tak;
That he wad gar the gueeds come dancing hame,
An' them pay deep an' dear that had the blame.
An' wi' a smile unto the maiden says:
“I mind to hear of Flaviana's braes.
Fan I was young, upo' the neirish knee,
My mamy us'd to sing a sang to me
About the braes; an' Colen was the lad,
An' bony Jean the name the lassie had.
Well were they roos'd, gin a' was said was true;
An' what ken I, but they belang'd to you?
Gin they were bony, ye are sae, I see.”
31

The tear again came trickling frae her eye.
She scarce could speak, at last she sobbing says:
“There was a sang ca'd Flaviana's braes;
The fouk intil't belanging were to me,
An' tho' I say't, they cud na sibber be.
But sad's the sang that we may a' sing now;
Of hirds an' gear we're poor alike, I trow.”
“Fear na, sweet lassie, fear na,” he replies,
“'Tis nae a' hopeless that in peril lies.
Take ye good heartning, an' lay by your fears;
Come to this strype, an' wash awa' your tears;
I's mak you right enough.” The kindly tale,
To gang and wash, wi' Nory did prevail.
But O! fan he beheld her face so fair,
So sweet, so bony an' so debonair,
Gin he afore was o'er the lugs in love,
Outo'er the head he now was, and above.
Now ilka nook she fills within his heart,
An' he resolves that they shall never part.
An' to his page he says, “Tak out some meat;
I'm sure this lass has mair nor need to eat.”
“Gray-mercies,” she replies, “but I maun gang;
I dread that I hae bidden here o'er lang.”
“Na, bony lass,” he says, “tak ye some meat;
Ye winna get this offer ilka get.”
Tho' she was shamefu', hunger made her yield;
Sae they sat down aneth the shady beild;
With his ain hand he cutted aff an' gae,
An' eated wi' her, an' gar'd her do sae.
When hunger now was slack'd a litle wee,
She taks hersell, an' aff again she'll be;
Shamefu' she was, an' skeigh like onie hare,
An' coud na think of sitting langer there;
An' had her fears that ane sae gentle like
32

For nae gueed ends was making sick a fike.
She hadds her hand; the squire, that had his eye
Upon her a' the time, reed she sud flee,
Says cannily: “I'm sure ye are na sairt.
There's fouth o' meat; eat on an' dinna spair't.
Ye're just as welcome as my heart can mak you,
Nor need ye fear that onie skaith o'ertak you,
As lang's I'm here; for me, I's do you nane.
Nor do I think ye're safe to gang your lane
Amo' thir hills, for ye may meet with skaith:
There's fouks gang here that's abler than we baith.
E'en sit you still an' rest you here wi' me,
An' I shall ward an' warsel for you be.
An' tell me this, was ye a-field that day
When the wild kettrin ca'd your gueeds away?”
“Na, na,” she says, “I had na use to gang
Unto the glens to herd, this many a lang:
Some beasts at hame was wark enough to me,
Wi' onie help I cud my mither gee
At milking beasts, an' steering o' the ream,
An' boughting o' the ewes when they came hame.”
“Well, that's a' gueed enough,” he says, “but then,
How anter'd ye a-fiedlert sae your lane?
Or what could ye do, wandring up an' down?
Ye might ha gotten skaith by rogue or lown.
Or was your father or your brother there,
That ye hae dreet sae meikle cark an' care?”
She says: “For brithers, I hae nane o' them;
An' for my father, he was not frae hame.
But I to spy had wandert out that gate,
Wond'ring what chance had kept the gueeds so late.
Just as I'm there, twa o' our herds came by,
Rais'd like, an' rinning up, what they coud hey.
I speer'd what held the gueeds sae wond'rous late;
33

They tauld me what had been their dowy fate;
They left me there, sae I, but ony mair,
Getwards alane unto the glens can fare,
An' ran o'er pow'r, an' ere I bridle drew,
O'erran a' bounds that e'er afore I knew.
The night grew merk, an' dowie was my case,
An' I began to rue my reckless race.
Fan day came in—an' wellcome was the light,
For fear maist kill'd me o' the dead of night—
I ken na how it was, but on I yeed;
But o' my journey I've come little speed.”
“Well,” says he, “lassie, night 'll fa' right now;
An' i' this wilsome glen, what will ye do?
Tak ye my counsel, an' gang on wi' me,
An' a kind lodging I shall lat you see;
Nae man but women ye shall see therein,
An' be as welcome as my mither's sin.
Syne o' the morn we something shall contrive,
That sall mak you as right's ye was belyve.”
Wi' their kind speeches Nory gees consent;
Sae up they rose, an' down the burn they went.
He gae the page a wink to gae before,
An' he himsell came up wi' Helenore.
Kindly an' civil ay to her he spak,
An' held her in good tune wi' many a crack:
For he was ay in dread that she meith rue,
An' sae he strove to keep the subject new:
First speer'd her name, an' after that her eild;
Syne smiling says, “We'll soon be at the bield.”
Thir shifts he us'd to quiet her demur,
But O! his heart stack till her like a bur.
34

For as her mind began to be at saught,
Intill her face ilk sweet an' bony draught
Came till it sell; his heart fand sick a bliss,
He wad ha geen his neck but for ae kiss;
But yet that gate he durst na mak a mein,
He was sae conjur'd by her modest eyn,
That, tho' they wad a warm'd a heart of stane,
Had yet a cast sick freedoms to restrain.
An' sae for fear he clean sud spoil the sport,
Gin anes his shepherdess should tak the dort,
He buir upon him, an' never loot her ken
That he was onie ways about her fain.
Yet monie a sigh an' “Hegh hey!” did she gee,
An' looked ay as gin she meant to flee.
At last an' lang, whan night began to gloem,
An' eery-like to sit on hill an' howm,
To a bra' gentle place they drew in by
Of his, where an auld aunty had her stay.
As he came in, says aunty, “Welcome hame!
I think this day ye hae made dainty game.
Where met ye, nefo, wi' that bony lass?
Ye're nae blate, lad, to hunt in sick a case.”
“I've gotten a pout, an' fashen her living hame,
An' gin I'd left her, wad a been to blame.
The story's lang to tell you how we met,
But first of a' ye'll fetch us ben some meat.
I fear this lassie wants it very sair,
For lang, I ween, her meltet has been bare.
To come alang sweer was she to intreat,
An' yet I kend her mister to be great.
35

I promis'd her good quarters, aunt, an' ye
Unto the lass as gueed's my word maun be.”
Syne auntie crys her dather Betty ben;
Says, “See, your cousin's ta'en a bra' muir hen.”
She says, “A-hunting he may gae again:
Sick pouts as thir may mak the hunter fain.”
Then says auld aunty to her dather Bess,
“You're nae like this wi' a' your fiky dress:
She dings you in her hamely gown of gray,
As far's a summer dings a winter day.”
Then says to Nory, “Rest you, bony hen,
An' tak a piece; your bed's be made the ben;
An' ly wi' my ain dather Betty there.
Fa sees your bony skin ye need na care;
For hers to yours, but like aum'd leather looks.
Well fells the lad that's farthest i' your books.”
Says Betty: “She shall mair nor welcome be
To tak a share of bed an' board wi' me.
An' gin she like it, as I wiss she may,
We sanna part frae ither night nor day.”
Says Olimund, for so they call'd the squire:
“Gray-mercies, cousin, ye sall hae your fair,
The first time I to town or merket gang,
Whilk, an' hights had, will be ere it be lang:
A pair o' kissing strings, an' gloovs fire-new,
As gueed as I can weal, shall be your due.”
Says Betty, “Hads you! But I think it best
That she an' I slip down an' tak our rest.”
Now nane was there but aunty an' himsell;
An' she says till him, “I hae news to tell.”
“What news?” he says; “I wiss they may be gueed;
Of sick I'm sure that I hae mickle need.”
36

“Well, man, your father's dead—” “Aunt, gar me trow!”
Replies the squire. “Who tauld sick news to you?”
“Baith tale an' tales-man I to you shall tell:
Eight days aback, a post came frae himsell,
Speering for you, an' wond'ring unko sair
That ye had broken tryst in your affair.
I wrate him back, that ye yeed aff frae me
Wi' time enough, in time at hame to be,
An' in gueed heal; an' seem'd as sair agast
To hear the news, an' fairly 'd assa fast.
This took him by the stammack very sair;
He wrings his hands like ane in deepest care;
Crys: ‘He is either by the gypsies taen,
Or may be aff unto the army gane:
Whan he an' I 'bout ony threap fell out,
That was the road that he was for, but doubt.
Gin he is gane, as doubtless but he has,
He'll shortly mak us ane an' a' cha' fause,
Wi' draught on draught by ilka Holland mail,
An' eat up faster a' than tongue can tell.’
In sick a tune he wrang, till at the last
The dreary thought him in a fever cast;
Which wrought him sae that in three days an' less
He was full ready for his hindmost dress.
I think by now ye need na hae great fear
That ye maun tak the lass wi' meikle gear.
He was to blame, my brother as he was,
Against your will to bid you tak a lass.”
“Ay, auntie, an' ye kent the bony aught!
'Tis true, she had of warld's gear a fraught.
But what was that to peace an' saught at hame,
An' mair nor that, to kirk an' merkat shame?
37

For had my father sought the warld round
Till he the very dightings o't had found,
A filthier hag could not come in his way
Than for my truncher what he had laid by:
An ugly, hulgie-backed, canker'd wasp,
Syne like to die for breath at ilka gasp;
Her teeth betweesh a yellow an' a black,
Some out, some in, an' a' of different mack;
Black, hairy wrats, about an inch between,
Out-throw her fiz, were like mustaches seen;
Her head lay back, an' her syde chafts sat out,
An' o'er her gab hang down a sneevling snout;
An' tak her a' together, rough an' right,
She wad na been by far four feet of height;
An' for her temper, maik she ne'er had nane:
She'd mak twa paps cast out on ae breast-bane.
But yet, say what I liked, nought wad do
But I maun gang this bony chap to woo.
My father he yeed wi' me at the first,
But a' the time my heart was like to birst,
To think to lead my life wi' sick an ape.
I'd rather mak my tesment in a raip.
But ugly as she was, there was na cure,
But I maun kiss her, 'cause I was the woo'r.
My father briskly loot me see the gate,
But I'll assure you I look'd unko blate;
An' very thrawart like I yeed in by.
‘A young man look so blate!’ he says, ‘O fy!’
Nor was it fairly, for her stinking breath
Was just enough to sconfise ane to death.
But frae my father monie a slaik she gat,
An' I, just like to spue, like blunty sat.
I canna say but she was wond'rous kind,
38

An' for her dresses, wow, but they were fine!
An' monie a bony thing was in our sight,
An' a' thing that we saw was snug an' tight;
Nae little wealth, I 'sure you, there we saw,
An' ilka thing was rich an' fine an' bra';
But for it a' I didna care a strae,
An' wad ha geen my neck to be awa'.
At last an' lang, as we are riding hame,
My father says: ‘Yon is a wealthy dame.
What think ye, Mundy, winna ye be bra',
Whan ye yon bony things your ain can ca'?
Do's not your heart ly to the bargain now,
An' hae you not encouragement to woo?’
‘A's well,’ I says, ‘except what should be best;
An' whan that's wrang, what worth is a' the rest?’
‘I grant,’ he says, ‘she's nae a beauty spot;
But he that wad refuse her is a sot.
Tho' ye seem shy, she wad get ten for ane;
An' I shall wad, she'll nae be lang her lane:
Her riggs'll gar the wooers come ding-dang,
An' she'll strike up wi' ane ere it be lang.
Sae strik the iron, lad, when it is het,
An' a' the land an' wealth an' baggage get.
Ye see her rigs run just unto our ain;
'Twill mak a swinging lairdship a' in ane.
An' Mundy, she's for you aboon them a';
Sae whan it's at your foot, man, strike the ba'.
An' mind you, billy, tho' ye looked dry,
Ye'll change your fessons, an' gae sharp in by,
An' daut her o'er and o'er; I'll wad my head,
At the neist courting bout but ye's come speed.
But wha wad hae you, when ye sit sae dumb,
An' never apens your mou to say a mum?
39

Ye maun mak o' her, kiss her o'er and o'er,
Say that ye'll die, an' but her canna cowr;
But for her sake maun view the lands of leal,
Except she pity an' your ailment heal.
But out o' jest, an' in in earnest, lad,
Ye maun look forret, an' the bargain hadd,
Or else ye's tyne whatever ye held o' me;
There is nae other boot but it maun be.’
Syne in a little I maun gang again,
An' what was warst of a', maun gang my lane;
Am bidden court an' daut an' seek the lass.
O aunt, but I was at an unko pass!
But I resolves upon't to put a face,
An' see gin I had can to turn the chase.”
“Well, how behav'd ye, did ye gee'r the mou,”
Says aunty till him, “wi' monie a scraip an' bow?
Syne sat ye down beside her, cheek for chew,
An' syne begin to sigh, an' say ‘Hegh how’?
Syne lay your hand athwart her hulgy back,
An' now an' then to steal a quiet smak?”
“Na, bimme sooth I! I came fiercelins in,
An' wi' my trantlims made a rattlin dinn;
Syne hailst her roughly, an' began to say
I'd gotten a lump o' my ain dead the day,
Wi' weet an' wind sae tyte into my teeth,
That it was like to cut my very breath.
‘Gin this be courting, well I wat 'tis dear;
I gat na sik a teazle this seven year.
Sae ye maun gee your answer now perqueer;
I manna ilka day be coming here
To get sick sniflers; courting's nae a jest;
Anither day like this 'll be my priest.’”
40

“Well,” quo she, “nefo, thir were wanton sports.
I hope ye gard the lady tak the dorts;
For sick rough courting I hae never seen,
Syn I was born, a lass an' lad between.”
“Na, aunty,” says he, “she was not sae skeigh,
Nor wi' her answer very blate nor dreigh;
But says: ‘I'm wae ye've got so foul a day.
But maks na, till't grow better ye may stay.
Tho' 'twere this month, ye're very welcome here;
What I can gee, ye's get the best of cheer.’”
“I think,” quo aunt, “ye're fairly nicked now.”
“Nae half so sair,” says he, “as ye wad trow.
I tauld her that was kind, but then that I
Nae for a night out of my bed could ly;
Or if I sud, it wad be seen or day
There wad be mair nor cause to rue my stay;
That I the reason did na care to tell,
It was enough that I did ken't my sell.
Quo she, ‘I wiss I could your wanrest ken.
'Tis may be 'cause ye canna ly your lane.
Gin it be sae, ye's be provided here,
With may be nae sae gueed, but yet as near.’
I now began to think she meant hersell,
But how my stammack raise I sanna tell.
‘Na, na,’ quo I, ‘'tis wi' kent fouk I ly;
I never liked yet to gang astray.
This night I maun be hame afore I sleep;
Gin ganging winna do't, piece I sud creep.’
‘Well, gin ye be sae positive,’ she says,
‘I sanna urge, come back when e'er ye please.
Afore you ay your welcome ye shall find,
An' blame yoursell in case ye come behind.’
‘I's see to that,’ I says; sae aff I scours,
Blessing my lucky stars, an' hame I tours.
41

When I came hame, the auld boy says to me,
‘How have ye sped, is Ketty frank an' free?’
‘As frank,’ I says, ‘as heart o' man coud wiss.
I hanna fear that I my market miss.’
‘Well, Mundy, that's a man,’ my father says.
‘We's hae you marry'd now afore lang days.
Gin this day forthnight we's be cut an' dry—
It may be dangerous gin we delay.’
Thus wi' my lad I plaid at fast an' loose,
An' he begins to think I'm growing douse.
‘Content,’ says I; ‘but I maun gang an' see
My honest aunt, before I marri'd be.’
An' ye may mind I tauld you crap an' root
Fan I came here, an' that I ne'er wad do't.
He gae consent, but bade me keep the day,
An' bring my cousins wimme to the play.
A' this was good, I anes was won awa',
Resolv'd ere I yeed back a' nails to ca'.
Gueed was the counsel an' advice ye gae,
By helping me to shift that dreary day,
An' bidding me out-thro' the mountains range,
To pass the time, till matters took a change.
'Twas mair nor lucky that I was na here,
Whan the auld man about me sent to speer;
An' lucky, lucky was it that I yeed
Out thro' the glens, an' that I came sick speed.
Yon bony thing that I fuish hame with me,
Aboon a' woman kind, my wife shall be,
Except she say me nay. Now, aunt, ye maun
Lend me a lift about her, an' ye can.
She's even now as wild as onie rae,
An' wou'd need canny guiding ere she stay;
42

Fan she gets up, it's ten to ane but she,
Considering her fright, for aff will be.
But ye maun strive the gully well to guide,
An' daut the lassie sair to gar her bide.
Wi' some bra' claise to tempt her ye maun try.
Ye sanna do't for nought, I's better buy,
An' put into their place. Spare ye nae cost.
I mak you sure your labour's nae be lost.”
“But, nefo,” quo she, “ye're upon extreams,”
(Trying my lad) “an' living upo' dreams;
This choice is just as unko as the last,
An' fouk'll fairly at it just as fast:
A hair-brain'd littleane, wagging a' with duds,
An' looks as she had drapped frae the clouds!
What will fouk say to see you mak the choice?
It will, I 'sure you, mak nae little noise.”
“An' what care I? Let fouk say what they please.
Gin we heed says, we'll never sit at ease,”
The squire reply'd. “An' I hae heard your sell
Your meaning in another manner tell:
An' that in parents can be naething worse
Than bairns to marry against their will to force.”
“Well, nefo, I hae done,” replies the aunt;
“That is my judgment, I do freely grant.
I like the lassie, Mundy, with my heart;
An' as she's bony, nae doubt but she's smart.
She's young, an' sae can shape to onie cast:
Nae tree till it be hewn grows a mast.”
“Well, aunt, ye please me now, well mat ye thrive!
Gin ye can fix her, I'll be right belyve.
Ye ken your sell, the morn that I maun gang,
43

An' keep the things at hame frae gaing wrang.
In order whan I hae them something sett,
I'll back again return withouten let.
Keep her in tune the best gate that ye can,
But never mou-band till her onie man;
For I am sair mista'en gin a' her care
Spring not from some of them that missing are.
The greatest favour ye can do to me
Frae thinking lang's to keep the lassie free.
Gin she grow weary, tell her I'll be back
In a few days, an' gueed my promise mak:
That was, that I sud ever bear the blame,
Gin I the gueeds gar'd not come dancing hame.
I need na tell you how ye sud behave,
But a' unto your better judgment leave.
Wi' thir instructions I bid you adieu.
By day an' dawn the morn the bogs I'll view.”
Neist day, when morning thro' the windows sprang,
Nory bangs up, an' crys, “I've lain o'er lang.”
Betty, who was upo' the catch, replies,
“Lie still, sweet Nory, 'tis o'er soon to rise.”
As they are craking, aunty she comes ben,
An' smiling says, “How sleept my bony hen?
Betty, hae ye about her ta'en gueed care?
Ye're but a restless bed-fellow, I fear.”
“Well hae I lien, sweet mistress,” Nory said;
“I never lay afore in sick a bed,
Sae saft an' warm, an' wi' sae bony claise;
I've lien indeed fu' well, at my ain ease.
Let you nor yours ne'er in sick takin be
44

As yon bra' laird, well mat he thram, fund me.
This bony bed has gar'd me ly o'er lang.
I maunna langer byde, but up an' gang.”
“Huly,” she says, “hae ye nae hasty care:
Ye need na rise these couple o' hours an' mair.
I's come again an' raise you time enough.
Our lads yet hanna budg'd to yoke the plough.”
Sae out she slips, an' snecks the door behind,
An' Bess an' Nory to their crack begin.
“'Oman,” says Bess, “I think we'll tak advice,
An' e'en ly still; my mither's unko wyse.
She's up, but canna ly for want o' breath,
An' says that early rising did her skaith.
O'er browden'd o' the warld she was ay;
'Tis best we guide our sells as lang's we may.
She says, tho' she were back at auld fifteen,
She's never do again as she has done.”
“But O!” says Nory, “I am far frae hame,
An' this last night I had a dreary dream.
My heart's yet beatin wi' the very fright,
An' fan I'm waking, thinks I see the sight.
I thought that we were washing at our sheep
Intill a pool, an' O! but it was deep.
I thought a lad therein was like to drown;
His feet yeed frae him, an' his head yeed down;
Flaught-bred into the pool my sell I keest,
Weening to keep his head aboon at least:
But ere I wist, I clean was at the float;
I sanna tell you what a gloff I got:
My eyn grew blind, the lad I cudna see,
But ane I kent na took a claught of me,
An' fuish me out, an' laid me down to dreep.
Sae burden'd was I, I coud hardly creep.
45

Gryte was the care this stranger took o' me,
An' O! I thought him bony, blyth an' free.
Dry claise, I thought, he gae me to put on,
Better by far an' bra'er than my own.
An' fan I had come something to my sell,
Ayont the pool I spy'd the lad that fell,
Drouket, an' looking unko ourlach-like.
A lass about him made a wond'rous fike,
Drying an' dighting at him up an' down.
I kent her no, but stripped was her gown.
But O the skair that I got i' the pool!
I thought my heart had couped frae its hool.
An' sae I wakn'd, glamping here an' there;
I wat ye meith ha found me i' my care.”
Says Bess, “'Tis true your fump'ring wakn'd me;
I putted o' you for to set you free.”
As they are cracking, aunty she comes ben,
An' says, “How are ye now, my bony hen?
'Tis now fair day, an' ye an' Bess may rise.
See, lass, there's for you a new pair o' stays;
An' there's a gown some longer nor your ain.
Bess, put a' on her well, an' syne come ben.”
Now leave we Nory in her change of dress,
Under the care of aunty an' of Bess,
Till we acquaint you of poor Lindy's fate,
That was left corded up at sick a rate,
Tuggling an' struggling how to get him free,
An' all the time did meikle dolor dree,
Till wi' the grips he was baith black an' blue.
At last in twa the dowie raips he gnew.
But three hail days were fully come an' gane,
46

Ere he that task cud manage him alane.
An' when the raips were loos'd, an' a' set by,
Then Lindy to stand up began to try.
But, by your favour, that's aboon his thumb,
For he fell arslins o'er upon his bum:
His coots were dozn'd, an' the fettle tint;
Yet o' them of the raips was seen the dint;
An' mair attour, the lad for faut was gane,
An' naething left almost but skin an' bane.
At last he shoop himsell again to stand,
An' hirpl'd up wi' help of foot an' hand;
But swaver'd sae, as ye hae aften seen
Ane for a month had i' the fever been.
He taks the gate, an' travels as he dow,
Hamewith thro' many a wilsome height and how;
To Colen's house, by luck that nearest lay,
He, tyr'd an' weary'd, hirpl'd down the brae.
Whan he came in, wha's sitting there but Jean,
Poor Colen's honest wife, her leefu' lane?
Nae jot intil her hand, but greeting sair,
An' looking like threescore an' ten wi' care,
Tho' sax an' thirty held her yet again;
Sae sair for Nory she was sunk in pain,
An' Colen too, for he had gone to try
Gin he the lassie mang the hills might spy;
But tint nor tryal she had gotten nane
Of her that first, or him had hindmost gane.
“Peace be therein!” says he upo' the floer.
She turns about, an' says, “Ye're welcome here.
Wow, Lindy, is this ye? Where hae ye been?
Hae ye our gossip or poor Nory seen?”
47

“Na, well a wat I, 'oman, where yeed they?
They're nae sae wood, I hope, as chase the prey?”
“What they hae chas'd I ken na,” Jean replys;
“But since they yeed frae me it's lang three days.
Poor Nory gallop'd aff, that very night
That wi' the gueeds we gat the dreary fright.
What was her ends I ken na, yet I fear
That ye was at the bottom o' her care.
The hirds that came set a' things here a-steer,
An' she ran aff as rais'd as onie deer;
Land-gates unto the hills she held the gate,
After the night was glowm'd an' growing late.
We kent na what came o' her till neist day,
That the hirds tauld they saw her rin away.
At this her father took the rode, poor man,
An' to the glens like ane distracted ran.
Of ane or ither I've nae tryal got.
I fear the warst, that doolfu' is their lot.
An' I in wae am pining here my lane,
The warst three days that o'er my head hae gane.”
“An' are ye saying Nory is awa?”
Replies the lad. “That is the warst of a'.
Hard's been my fortune for this three days past,
But I have met the hardest at the last.
My threed o' life is worn very sma',
Just at the very braking into twa'.
What fusion's in it I shall frankly ware,
As lang's I can, in seeking o' my dear.
Great may the hardship be that she has met,
An' gotten for my sake a dowie sett.
Poor 'oman! O, an' I had pith to gang,
To find her out, tho't sud be ne'er so lang!
48

My heart-bleed for her I wad frankly ware,
Sae be I could relieve her o' her care.”
An' up he rises; Jean says, “Gueed's your cause,
For monie a day ye plaid amo' the shaws.
But sair I dread your labour will be vain:
Gin she'd been living, she had been again.
But syn ye're gaing, I shanna you withstand.
But ye will tak a piece into your hand;
An' here's a wallet stiff wi' cheese an' bread,
To help you o' the rode, for ye'll hae need.
Seek wyne an' onwyne, miss na height nor how,
An' cry whan ever ye come upon a know;
An' ilka gate ye gang, baith far an' near,
As well for Colen as for Nory speer.
Alas! I ken na what to bid you say,
Or wha is dearest to me of the twae.”
Then aff he gaes, a kent intil his hand,
An' whan he raise, had hardly pith to stand.
Out-throw the hills the gainest way he took,
An' in his search miss'd neither hook nor crook.
But O! tho' he was willing, he was weak,
An' with sad grief his heart was like to break.
He stress'd himsell to cry aboon his pith,
An' try his abilty both limb an' lith.
Aft-times he boot to sit him down an' rest;
The night fell on him, wi' thick weet an' mist;
A cauld stane side the beild that he coud mak;
At night the weet was pelting on his back;
Ae wink o' sleep, wi' grief an' cauld an' weet,
Out-throw the wilsome night he cud na get.
When day came in, and it began to clear,
49

A' round about he spies baith far an' near;
Crys mony a “Nory,” but nae answer hears.
Syne westlins thro' the glens his course he steers;
And as he yeed, the tract at last he found
Of the reif'd gueeds upo' the mossie ground.
An' on he gaes anither live-long day,
But neither lights on Nory nor the prey.
Night fa's again, an' he maun tak a beild;
It was nae choice thir rugged hills coud yield.
But wi' some hopes he travels on, while he
The gate the hership had been ca'd cud see,
Thinking that ablins Nory meith hae gane
Upo' the tract: but he was sair mista'en;
For to the eastard she her course had bent,
An' as the burnie led, still downward went.
Neist day 'gainst noon he comes upon a brae,
Where mony a beast at their ain leisure lay;
But far beneath him, that he cud na ken
Gin onie o' them meith ha been his ain.
A burn ran i' the laigh, ayont there lay
As mony feeding o' the tither brae.
Down gatewards to the burn his course he steers,
But in his sight no herd as yet appears.
Whan he came down, bra' stepping-stanes he fand,
An' o'er he steps, his kane intill his hand.
Just as he landed o' the other bank,
Three lusty fellows gat o' him a clank;
Nor gae him time to wield his trusty tree,
Or onie means to use to had him free,
But round about him bicker'd a' at anes,
As they were playing at the penny-stanes.
50

An' wha were they but that same very three
That with the raips gar'd him the dolor dree?
“Ho, ho, my lad,” say they, “ye are not blate.
They gang right far about that never met.
It seems ye are na sairt wi' what ye got.
Ye's ken that we can cast a harder knot.”
An' till him straight, an' binds him o'er again,
Till he cry'd out wi' the sair gnidging pain;
While monie a paik unto his beef they led,
Till wi' the thumps he blue an' blae was made;
Then flung him by just like a slaughter-sheep,
An' bade him rest him there an' tak a sleep.
At night whan they were ready hame to gang,
An' shadows frae hill-heads were growing lang,
His legs they loos'd, but flighter'd held his hands,
An' lasht him hame before wi' birken wands,
About his houghs, and round about his lugs;
An' at his hair loot monie canker'd drugs.
Whan he's ca'd hame, they shot him in before
In a dark hole, an' snaply lock'd the door.
As he is chamber'd up, he hears a grain,
As of a bodie making heavy main;
An' piece the voice seem'd till him unko near,
For very fear he durst na budge to speer.
Whan he had lien a wee, the body says:
“O an' I were in Flaviana's braes!
Naething sud gar me gae sae far afield,
Tho' I at hame sud to the skin be peel'd.”
He kens the word, an' says, “Alake my fell!
Is that ye, Colen, are ye there your sell?”
“'Tis I, 'tis I; but tell me, what are ye,
That in this dreary darksome hole kens me?”
51

“E'en Lindy here, your ain auld neiper's son,
Wi' shakl'd hands, an' wi' a sair paid skin.”
“That's unko luck, but gueed I canna ca't;
But yet there's something couthie in it f'ra't,”
Colen replys. “Your sell as well as I
Has had bad hap, our fortun's been but thry.
Anes on a day, I thought na to hae been
Sae sadly new'd, or sick mischances seen.
But fat'll ye say? Sick things has been afor's,
An' we maun thole them, piece they had been worse.
But tell me Lindy, what was't fuish you out,
Or was ye ca'd awa' into the rout?”
“I was na ca'd,” says Lindy, “but was knit;
An' i' the sett three langsome days did sit,
Till wi' my teeth I gnew the raips in twa,
An' wi' sair pingling wan at last awa';
Crap hame, wi' meikle adi, an' whan I came,
Fand i' your house nae body but your dame.
Frae her I lear't poor Nory's chance an' yours,
Sae aff again, what legs cud lift, I scours,
Thro' monie a glen, till at the last I fell
Among sick fouks as ye hae fa'n your sell.
Whan came ye here?” “Nae mair but yesterday,”
Wi' dowie tone poor Colen made reply.
“Well, man,” he says, “for anes we're meked now,
An' maun beneath our thrawart fortune bow;
We maun be doing, syn better may na be;
We'll ablins yet some lucky day get free.
Heard ye o' Nory naething as ye yeed
Out thro' thir dowie glens, alive nor dead?”
“Nae tint nor trial,” Lindy says, “I fand,
52

Nor cud I hear o' her on onie hand.”
“'Tis mair nor likly then,” auld Colen says,
“That she is at the yont end o' her days.
Poor thing! she may be picked now as bair,
Wi' greedy beasts, as worry'd sheep or hare.”
Thus ilk ane to the other made his main,
An' sigh'd an' grat, an' sigh'd an' grat again.
As dawn sprang up, in the Sevitians came,
Whose natures to their country gave its name;
An' to the men sett by a task of hay,
To work till even frae the brak of day.
Each i' their hand a scrimp half bannock got,
That scarce wad fill at anes their mou an' throat;
So sett in view, they cud na win awa',
An' tauld to work, or they their backs wad cla'.
Their task was mair nor they cud well mak out,
An' as they promis'd, they their backs did rout.
About mid-day they ae slim meltet sent,
An' therewith aftentimes the maiden went,
Wha had na aft upo' the errand gane,
Till she is with the love of Lindy ta'en.
An' frae the time that Cupid shot the dart,
An' sent it to the bottom o' her heart,
Their mail was made twice better than before,
For she ne'er stuck to gang out-o'er the score:
Stoupfu's of crouds an' ream she aft wad steal,
An' bra'ly cud her tricks frae minny heal.
By this the lads a better living had,
An' monie a blessing till her therefore pray'd.
53

Whan she had come a while, she grew mair grave.
They speer'd the cause that made her sae behave:
Was she found out for mending o' their mail,
Or was she hamper'd of content or heal?
Na, na, she says, that lad was a' her care,
That was sae setting, wi' his yellow hair.
She cud na help it, but she beight to tell,
And how to ease her he kent best himsell.
Auld Colen says: “He wad be i' the wrang,
Gin frae your heal he held you short or lang;
Sae be, it be within his reach of pow'r,
By onie means your dreary ill to cure;
For kind, an' mair nor kind, to us ye've been,
Syn we began to toil upo' the green.
What is't that ails you? Speak, an' dinna spare;
An' gin he can he's ease you o' your care.”
“Well can he,” says she, “an' he like himsell.”
“Be what it like,” says Colen, “lassie, tell.”
Then Bydby says (sae was the maiden's name):
“My very breast is lowin' in a flame
For Lindy there, an' I maun down an' die
Except I get him; that's what troubles me.
I smoar'd the flame, an' thought to keep it in;
But ay the mair I smoar'd, it spread within,
Till now ye see 't 'as blaz'd out at my mou.
Ye ken my trouble, Lindy. Pity now.
Well sall ye fare, as lang as ye byde here,
Altho' your byding were for day an' year.
An' gin you thought that letting you awa'
Wad be a favour, I on means cud fa'
To lat you out upo' the dead of night,
Whan ye cud be well aff ere day was light;
54

But upo' this perconon I agree
To let you gang, that Lindy marry me;
An' tak me wi' ye, till fit time an' place
To seek a priest to gee's the haly grace.”
Now ye maun ken, whan they came frae the hay,
They ilka night were under lock an' key;
An' ilka morning by the creek o' day
They're sett to wark, an' snaply ca'd away.
“Well, Bydby,” Colen says, “ye's ken as soon,
The morn, as ye come wi' our piece at noon.”
Fan she's awa', to Lindy Colen says:
“What think ye, man, will yon frank lassie please?
Will ye our freedom purchase at this price?
'Twill be soon won, for Bydby is na nice.
Ye'll ken by this, the auld proverb is true:
Breeks maun come speed, whan pettycoats do woo.
Sair are we nidder'd, that is what ye ken,
An' wert na she, we had been bair the ben;
An' gin we bauk her, 'stead of being kind,
What we already hadd o' her we'll tyne;
An' to get aff ye see is yont our pow'r:
We're never out o' sight for half an hour,
But some cheeld ay upon us keeps an eye;
An' sae we need na lippen to get free.”
“I wonder, Colen, to hear you speak sae,
Kenning my mind anither gate to gae,”
Replies the lad. “An' what wad Nory say?
Gin she be livin', as I wiss she may.
Wad she na think hersell but ill paid hame,
An' ready be of faucit me to blame?”
Says Colen, “Man, gin that be a' your dread,
That needs na let, for Nory's surely dead;
She's got, I fear, what wedding she will get,
55

That's wi' the mields, sae that needs be nae lett.
But on the profer I shall pass my skill,
Tho' it be wrang to lear fouk to do ill:
Seem ye content to hadd her at her bode,
We'll mak a shift to tyne her o' the road,
An' sae get aff. 'Tis hamper't living here;
Slip we this knot, we may miss't for a year.
Sae when she comes the morn, blink in her eye,
An' wi' some life to her answer gee.”
“Well,” Lindy says, “I's try to do my best;
I's well begin, an' leave gueed luck the rest.”
Neist day, whan noon came on, Bydby appears,
An' Lindy, what he cud, his courage cheers,
Looks bra' an' canty, when she came in by,
An' says, “Twice welcome, Bydby, here the day.”
At this the lassie's courage got a heeze;
She thinks her wiss is now come till a creize.
Gin she came well provided ay afore,
This day she fuish of best of cheer gilore.
Sae they sat down a' frankly to their meat,
An' Lindy 'treated Bydby sair to eat;
An' blyth was she, an' freely took a skair,
An' thought she saw the yont end o' her care.
Whan they had eaten, an' were straitly pang'd,
To hear her fate young Bydby grytly lang'd;
An' Lindy did na keep her lang in pain,
But says: “I'm of your profer wond'rous fain.
Gee us our leesh this night, an' ye sall be
My dauted lass, an' gang alang wi' me.”
“Well fell my heart,” says Bydby, “Lindy, now!
Well wair'd I think what I hae geen to you.
I's keep my word this night, an' ye sall see,
Or the first cock, that I sall set you free.”
56

Whan she yeed hame, she spent the afterneen
As being o' the journey wond'rous keen:
Bannocks and kebbocks knit intil a claith
She had laid by, an' row'd up in her waith;
This she or e'en had tentily laid by,
An' happed up aneth a coll of hay.
Whan, tyr'd an' weary'd, they came hame at e'en,
They're clappet up into their hole bedeen;
The key brought in, had ben, an' closely laid
Aneath the bowster o' her brither's bed.
Now Bydby is intirely o' the catch,
Sleeps not a wink, but wakrifly does watch.
'Bout the bell hour of midnight, saft and fair,
She quits her bed, as timerous as a hare;
Gaes ben an' calmly steals awa' the key
Frae neath her brither's bowster, where it lay;
Opens the outer door wi' little dinn,
An' what she mought unto the lads can rin;
Says, “Are ye sleeping? Rise an' win awa!
'Tis time, an' just the time, for you to draw;
For now the lads are sleeping horn-hard,
The door upo' the dogs is closly barr'd;
Ichie or ochi now ye winna hear,
The best time o' the warld for you to steer.”
Colen an' Lindy now were cut an' dry,
What legs could lift, their wisht escape to try;
Sae out they come. The night was calm an' clear,
An' Bydby had her baggage lying near.
Together then they nimbly tak the gate,
An' scour'd the forrest at an awfu' rate;
57

But whan they were about twa miles awa',
Lindy began wi' care his head to claw;
Stands still, an' says, “Wae's me! I hae forgot,
Wi' haste o' coming aff, to fetch my coat.
Fat sall I do? It was almaist brand-new,
But scarce a hellier since come aff the clew.
O Bydby, lassie, an' ye's be my bride,
Rin back about it, here about we's bide
Till ye come back. Your birn ye may lay down;
Ye'll for the rinning be the better boun.”
Poor Bydby trows him, an' rins back again;
Then says the lad, “I think the day's our ain!”
They turs'd the baggage, an' awa' they scour,
Out o'er the yonter brae, wi' a' their power.
Poor Bydby was na lang ere she came back,
Mounts up the coat ere ye a nut wad crack,
An' to the road again wi' a' her pith,
For souple was she ilka limb an' lith;
Back in a clap she's at the very place
Frae which to fetch the coat she took the race;
Looks round about her, but she naething sees,
An' back an' fore she spies amo' the trees;
But a' her labour's vain, nae bodie's there;
She cries, nane answers. Then began her care:
“O Lindy! Lindy! hast thou left me sae?
Dear is this coat o' thine to me this day!
What shall come o' me? Hame I dare na gang:
The herds an' gueeds 'll be afield ere lang;
We'll a' be missing, I'll get a' the wyte,
An' me my lane be made to bear the syte.
Hame? na! What gueed at hame to me cud be,
58

Whan my dear Lindy is awa' frae me?
But may be they hae gane out-o'er the brae,
To hae't ahind them ere the brak o' day.
I'll on an' see but there about they ly;
They'll either see, or hear me when I cry.
For Lindy did na look like ane to cheat,
Or onie lass wi' jamphing sae to treat.”
Then up the brae wi' a' her might she heys,
An' whan she's past it, monie a “Lindy!” cries.
But by your favour, there's nae Lindy there;
There's nane to answer, and as few to hear.
Now by this time the sun begins to leam,
An' litt the hill-heads wi' his morning beam,
An' birds an' beasts an' fouk to be asteer,
An' streams o' reek frae lumb-heads to appear.
Whan she had cry'd, and grat, an' cry'd again,
An' fand that a' her crying was in vain,
She e'en lay down aneth her load o' care,
An' wisht that she were dead, an' dead just there.
A mournfu' ditty till her sell she sang,
Roove out her hair in flaughts, her hands she wrang.
Yet with the weary coat she wad na part;
The sight o't gae some glad'ning to her heart.
“What sall I do? Gang hame again? Na, na;
That were my hogs to a blate fair to ca'.
Anes out I am, I's never turn again,
Tho' till I die I gang, an' gang in vain.
Northert frae this I aften heard them say
That their ain cuintray Flaviana lay;
That gate I'll had, gin I the airths can keep,
An' fan I fail to gang, I'll strive to creep;
It may be I upo' the gate may fa',
An' frae my birn of sorrow win awa'.”
But she had naething nature to sustain;
59

The lads wi' them had aff the baggage ta'en;
For a' the wealth that she had left at hame
Of cheese an' bannocks, butter, milk an' ream,
She was that day as fremmit to it a'
As the wild Scot that wins in Gallaway.
But dool yet had na letten her find her want,
Or think of the misluck of being scant:
Altho' her weam was clung, an' she grown yape,
Love eek'd wi' care helpt to fill up the gap.
As she was souple like a very eel,
O'er hill an' dale she forcefully did dreel;
A' road to her was bad an' gueed alike;
Nane o't she wyl'd, but forret still did streak;
But as she kent na, she mistook the cast,
An' mair an' mair fell frae the road they past.
O'er monie heights an' hows she dreels ere noon,
An' cud hae thol'd wi' pleasure her disjune;
But naething had her cravings to supplie,
Except the berries o' the hawthorn tree,
An' slaes an' nuts, that i' the thicket grew;
O' these indeed she cud hae ta'en enew;
But some way on her they fuish on a change,
That gut an' ga' she keest wi' breakings strange;
The forelins race did her sae hetly cadge,
Her stammack had nae maughts sick meat to swage:
Sick, sick she was, as ever lay on strae,
An' near gae up the gost 'tweesh that an' wae.
Down she maun ly, she was so sair opprest,
An' try gin she'd be better of a rest.
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In care-bed lair for three lang hours she lay,
An' by this time, it's well o'er i' the day;
Now bit an' bit the sickness wears awa',
But she's as dweble as a windlestra'.
Weak as she was, she taks the gate again,
An' yeed na far till she observes twa men,
To north and east o' her a piece before;
As soon's she spy'd them, she began to roar,
Crying, “Byde still!” an' running what she dow;
The men her heard, an' sat down on a know.
She was nae lang till snaply she came too,
The men says till her, “Well, lass, what's ado?”
When she came near, she fand she was mista'en.
They speer'd what she was seeking here her lane,
Sae far frae towns; it cud na be for good
That she was wand'ring there in sick a mood.
“'Tis for nae ill,” she says, “that I am here;
Nor errandless, tho' ye be free to speer:
Twa men I seek, and thought ye had been they.”
“Twa men ye've got,” say they, “then come away.”
“Na, na,” she says, “I'm nae of men so scant;
An' tho' I'm seeking, ye're not wha I want.
But tell me gin ye saw twa men the day,
The tane wi' yellow hair, the tither gray.”
“I wad,” says ane, “the yellow hair'd's your jo.”
“I kenna,” quo she, “gin he be or no.”
“Is that his coat ye hae upo' your back?”
“'Tis e'en the same, an's been a heavy wrack.”
“He maun be little worth that left you sae.”
“He may be is, young man, an' may be nay.”
“Ye're unko short, my lass, to be so lang;
61

But we maun ken ye better ere ye gang.
I think it best ye gee that coat to me—”
“I think na sae, an' so we disagree.
It is na yours, an' what wad ye do wi't?
As little cud ye think that I wad gee't.
'Twas never made for me, ye may well ken;
An' fouk are free to gee but what's their ain.”
“Ye may be stown't awa' frae side some lad,
That's fa'en asleep at wauking o' the fauld.”
“'Tis nae sic thing, an' ye're but scant o' grace
To say sic boddards till a bodie's face.”
“An', bony lass,” says he, “ye'll gee's a kiss,
An' I sall set ye right on, hit or miss.”
“A hit or miss I'll get but help o' you.
Kiss ye slate stanes, that winna slagg your mou,”
An' aff she gaes. The fallow loot a rin,
As gin he ween'd wi' heels to tak her in;
But as luck was, a kniblack took his tae,
An' o'er fa's he, an' tumbl'd down the brae.
His neiper leugh, an' said it was well wairt;
Let never jamphers yet be better sairt.
Thus she escapes by favour o' her heels,
An' made na stop for stanes or scrabs or pools;
Twa mile she ran afore she bridle drew,
An' syne she lean'd her down upon a brow,
Sair out o' breath, an' almaist tint for faut,
An' spies beneath a buss o'—what ye ca't?
Ay—eaten berries; an' straight yeed down the brae,
An' there she gat them, black as onie slae;
On them she penny'd well, an' starker grew,
An' syne wi' speed her race she did renew.
But by this time the night begins to fa',
62

An' she frae onie bield was far awa',
Except stane sides, an' they had little lythe;
But o' that same she for the time was blythe.
But a' thing now grew black, an' eery like,
An' she nae living had to her to speak;
An' tho' she was right bardach on day-light,
She was as fly'd as onie hare at night:
The earn-bleater, or the muir-fowl's cra'
Was like to melt her very heart awa'.
Yet boot she had na but that pain to dree,
An' never a wink a' night came in her eye.
I sanna tell you what case she was in;
But fan the lavrock did her sang begin,
Blyth at her heart she was, an' turst her coat
Upon her back, an' to the rode she got;
Ay hading eastlins, as the ground did fa',
An' frae the height strove ay to had awa'.
But yet nae cuintray in her sight appears
But dens an' burns an' bare an' langsome moors.
This gate she travels till the heat of day,
An' now her heart is like to gang away
Wi' heat an' mister; then wi' hersell thinks she,
This gate she cud na lang in midlert be.
She sits her down, an' thinks her truff was there,
An' never thought to see kent face nae mair.
As till her sell she's making thus her main,
Feeding wi' bootless care her dreary pain,
Sleep stealt upon her sick an' fainting heart,
An' eas'd her o' her sorrow in a part.
But floughtrous dreams stroove, what they mought, to spill
63

The saught that sleep was making to her ill;
Dreams she's pursu'd for latting gae the men,
An' taking butt the key that lay the ben;
Wi' monie a threat to thrash her back an' side,
Till they came till her gin she wad na bide.
Sae up she starts, an' glowr'd a' round about,
An' gin 'twas true or no began to doubt;
An' wi' what pith she had began to gang,
For fear that she sud be o'erta'en or lang.
But little shot she came, an' yet the sweat
Was draping frae her at an unko rate;
Showding frae side to side, an' lewdring on,
Wi' Lindy's coat-syde hanging on her drone.
In this poor pickle, whan onie help wad been
The blythest sight that ever she had seen,
What spies she coming but a furious man,
Feaming like onie bear, that ever ran?
An' heigh aboon him, vap'ring in his hand,
Glancing afore the sun, a glittering brand;
Roaring an' swearing like a rais'd dragoon,
That he sud see the heart-bleed o' the lown.
What i' the earth to do she cud na tell;
For fear quite master'd her, an' down she fell.
The man, that ramping was an' raving mad,
Came fiercelings up, an' crying ay, “Had! had!”
An' in his fury, an' his reeling eyn,
Thinks that the ane he wanted she had been.
Th'unchancy coat, that boonmest on her lay,
Made him believe that it was even sae.
Whan come, he cries, “Rise, murd'rer dog! till I
A port make thro' your breast for life to fly.”
64

“O spare! O spare!” says Bydby, “hadd your hand!
I'm but a woman, an' can hardly stand.”
Soon by her voice he kend that she spake true,
An' says, “Rise, fear not, I'm not seeking you.
But saw ye, tell me, saw ye i' this glen,
Skulking by onie bield, twa wretched men,
My sakeless brither that hae basely slain,
For naething but for seeking o' his ain?
Tell shortly, an' ye's get nae harm frae me,
Nor mair be putten till, whate'er ye be.”
“Yes, yes, twa men I saw, ayont yon brae,”
She trembling said; “I wiss them meikle wae:
Sad was the chase that they hae geen to me,
My heart near coup'd its hool ere I got free.
Twa mile frae this I left them on a know,
An' far beneath it lies a dreary how,
Thro' whilk I ran, till I'm near at my last.
Gueed be your speed, an' dowie be their cast!”
Wi' furious speed he soon skipt o'er the height;
She never budg'd till he was out o' sight.
What chance he further had she cud na tell,
But was right fain that she wan aff her sell.
Whan she a mile or twa had farther gane,
She grows right eery to be sae her lane,
An' mair an' mair she frae the hills hads down,
Wissing that she meith light upon some town;
But she's as weak as very water grown,
An' tarrows at the browst that she had brown;
An' haflings wisses she had never seen
The bony lad she loo'd atweesh the eyn;
For now a' hopes of seeing him are lost,
65

That likly seeking him her life wou'd cost;
An' will an' wilsome was she, an' her breast
Wi' wae was bowden, even like to birst.
Nae sust'nance got, that of meal's corn grew,
An' only at the cauld wild berries gnew;
But frae that food nae pith came till her banes,
An' she was fu' an' hungry baith at anes.
Now she began to think within hersell
Upon a tale she heard a weerd-wife tell,
That thro' the cuintray telling fortunes yeed,
An' at babees an' placks came wond'rous speed:
Whan she her loof had looked back an' fore,
An' drew her finger langlins ilka score,
Upo' her face look'd the auld hag forfairn,
An' says, “Ye will hard fortun'd be, my bairn;
Frae fouk a-fiedlert, nae frae fouk at hame,
Will come the antercast ye'll hae to blame;
Gin ye be wysse, beware of unko men;
I dread, for sick ye'll anes be bare the ben;
Sae come ye speed, or miss ye o' your mark,
Ae thing I see, ye'll hae right kittle wark.”
Then says my lass, “Had I but been sae wysse
As hae laid up auld mummy's gueed advice,
Frae this mischance I meith hae kept me free.
But wha can frae what's laid afore them flee?”
Thus making at her main she lewders on,
Thro' scrabs an' craigs, wi' mony a heavie groan;
Wi' bleeding legs an' sair misguided shoon,
An' Lindy's coat ay feltring her aboon;
Till on a heigh brae-head she lands at last,
That pitlens down to a how burnie past;
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Clear was the burnie, an' the busses green,
But rough an' steep the brae that lay between;
Her burning drowth inclin'd her to be there,
But want of maughts an' distance eek'd her care.
Now by this time the evenings fa'ing down,
Hill-heads were red, an' hows were eery grown;
Yet wi' what pith she had she takes the gate,
An' wan the burn; but now it's growin late.
The birds about were making merry cheer;
She thought their musick sang, “Ye're welcome here.”
Wi' the cauld stream she quencht her lowan drowth,
Syne o' the eaten berrys eat a fouth,
That black an' ripe upo' the bushes grew,
An' were new water'd with the evening dew;
Then sat she down aneth a birken shade
That clos'd aboon her, an' hang o'er her head.
Couthy an' warm an' gow'ny was the green,
Instead o' night, had it the day-light been:
But grim an' ghastly an' pick black, wi' fright,
A' things appear'd upo' the dead of night.
For fear she curr'd, like makine i' the seat,
An' dunt for dunt her heart began to beat.
Amidst this horror, sleep did on her steal,
An' for a wee her flightering breast did heal;
An' thus, whiles slouming, whiles starting wi' her fright,
She maks a shift to wear awa' the night.
(As she hauf sleeping and hauf waking lay,
An unco din she hears of fouk and play.
The sough they made gar'd her lift up her eyn,
And O the gath'ring that was on the green
Of little foukies, clad in green and blue!
Kneefer and trigger never trade the dew;
67

In many a reel they scamper'd here and there,
Whiles on the yerd, and whiles up in the air.
The pipers play'd like ony touting horn;
Sic sight she never saw since she was born.
As she's behading all this mirthful glee,
Or e'er she wist, they're dancing in the tree
Aboon her head, as nimble as the bees
That swarm in search of honey round the trees.
Fear's like to fell her, reed that they sud fa',
And smore her dead, afore she wan awa';
Syne in a clap, as thick's the motty sin,
They hamphis'd her with unco fike and din;
Some cry'd, “Tak ye the head, I'se tak a foot;
We'll lear her upon this tree-head to sit,
And spy about her!” Others said, “Out fy!
Let be, she'll keep the King of Elfin's ky.”
Another said, “O gin she had but milk!
Then sud she gae frae head to foot in silk,
With castings rare, and a gueed nourice-fee,
To nurse the King of Elfin's heir Fizzee.”
Syne ere she wist, like house aboon her head,
Great candles burning, and braw tables spread;
Braw dishes reeking, and just at her hand,
Trig green coats sairing, a' upon command.
To cut they fa', and she among the leave;
The sight was bonny, and her mou did crave;
The mair she ate, the mair her hunger grew;
Eat what she like, and she coud ne'er be fu';
The knible Elves about her ate ding-dang;
Syne to the play they up, and danc'd and flang;
Drink in braw cups was caw'd about gelore;
Some fell asleep, and loud began to snore;
Syne in a clap, the Fairies a' sat down,
And fell to crack about the table round:
Ane at another speer'd “Fat tricks played ye,
When in a riddle ye sail'd o'er the sea?”
Quoth it: “I steal'd the King of Sweden's knife,
Just at his dinner, sitting by his wife,
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Whan frae his hand he newlins laid it down;
He blam'd the steward, said he had been the lown:
The sakeless man deny'd, syne yeed to look,
And, lifting of the tableclaith the nook,
I gae't a tit, and tumbl'd o'er the bree.
Tam got the wyte, and I gae the tehee.
I think I never saw a better sport,
But dool fell'd Tam, for sadly he paid for't.”
“But,” quoth another, “I play'd a better prank:
I gar'd a witch fa' headlins in a stank,
As she was riding on a windlestrae;
The carling gloff'd, and cry'd out ‘Will-awae!’”
Another said: “I couped Mungo's ale
Clean heels o'er head, fan it was ripe and stale,
Just whan the tapster the first chapin drew;
Then bad her lick the pail, and aff I flew.
Had ye but seen how blate the lassie looked,
Whan she was blam'd, how she the drink miscooked!”
Says a gnib elf: “As an auld carle was sitting
Among his bags, and loosing ilka knitting
To air his rousty coin, I loot a claught,
And took a hundred dollars at a fraught.
Whan with the sight the carle had pleas'd himsell,
Then he began the glancing heap to tell.
As soon's he miss'd it, he rampaged red-wood,
And lap and danc'd, and was in unco mood;
Ran out and in, and up and down; at last
His reeling eyn upon a raip he cast,
Knit till a bauk, that had hung up a cow:
He taks the hint, and there hings he, I trow.”
As she's behading ilka thing that past,
With a loud crack the house fell down at last.
The reemish put a knell unto her heart,
And frae her dream she waken'd wi' a start:
She thought she could not 'scape of being smor'd,
And at the fancy loudly cry'd and roar'd.
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Syne frae the tree she lifted up her head,
And fand, for a' the din, she was na dead;
But sitting body-like, as she sat down,
But ony alteration, on the ground.)
The sky now casts, an' syne wi' thrapples clear,
The birds about began to mak their cheer;
An' neist the sun to the hill-heads did speal,
An' shed on plants an' trees a growthy heal.
(Poor Bydby's wond'ring at ilk thing she saw,
But wi' a hungry cut-pock for it a';
And fairly'd now, gin it a dream had been
She thought she saw sae vively with her eyn;
And frae the ill o't sain'd her o'er and o'er,
And round about with mazerment gan glowr.)
But she does o'er her thrawart fortune mourn,
An' wi' how sighs she looked down the burn;
Syne taks the road, weak as a windlestrae,
That wi' the wind e'er wagged on a brae.
For very faut her legs began to plett,
She wi' her journey had got sick a sett.
Sweet was the sang the birdies plaid alang,
Canting fu' cheerfu' at their morning mang,
An' meith ha sown content in onie breast
Wi' grief like hers that had na been opprest;
But naething cud her dowie spirits cheer,
As lang's she gat na trial o' her dear.
Funabeis on she gaes, as she was bown,
An' monie times to rest her limbs lay down,
Nae sust'nance gat she a' the live-lang day,
70

'Xcept now an' than a berry o' the way;
But this gueed hap throwout the day she had:
She met wi' naething to mak her afraid.
At last an' lang, as night began to fa',
Near to some dwelling she began to draw,
That was a' burrach'd round about wi' trees,
Thro' which the reek frae the lumb-heads she sees.
That gate she hads, an' as she weer in by
Amo' the trees, a lass she do's espie;
To her she hys, an' hailst her wi' a jook;
The lass paid hame her compliment, an' buik.
“Hegh hey!” she says, as soon as she came too,
“There's been a langsome dowie day to me.
Faint, faint, alas! wi' faut an' mister gane,
An' in a peril just to die my lane.”
“Wae's me!” the other says, “that's dowie fate.
It's nae be lang ere ye some sust'nance get;
Sit still an' rest ye here, aneth this tree,
An' in a clap I's back wi' something be.”
An' fa was this, think ye, sae kindly spake,
But Nory, taking at her evening wake
Amo' the trees, an' making at her main,
Thinking she ne'er wad Lindy see again?
'Twas here she bade, an' here she was ta'en in,
An' better guided than wi' a' her kin.
An', as she promis'd, back she came in haste;
An' ye may trow't, her pouches were na waste;
Sae cuts of flesh, an' lumps o' bread an' cheese
To Bydby, on the point of starving, gees;
Wha with gueed will pang'd up her hungry maw,
Syne frae a strype drank up what she cud draw.
Then till her Nory says: “What's been your fate,
That ye hae fa'en in sick a staggering state?
What means that coat ye carry o' your back?
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It cud na miss to be your utter wrack.
Ye maun, I ween, unto the kards belang,
Seeking perhaps to do some body wrang,
An' meet your crew upo' the dead o' night,
An' brak some house, or gee the fouk a fright.
I was o'er busie geeing you relief,
Whan, ablins, ye are but at best a thief.”
“Hegh hey!” quo Bydby, “this is very hard,
That whan fouk travel, they are ca'd a kard.
I watt na, lass, gin ye wad tak it well,
Gin wi' your sell fouk in sick sort sud deal.
But they that travel monie a bob maun byde,
An' sae wi' me has forn at this tide.”
“Forgimme, lass,” says Nory, “it may be
That I am wrang, but fouk to guess are free.
But what's the matter, gin ye like to tell,
That ye are wandrin' sae alane your sell?”
“Syn that ye speer, I's lat you shortly ken:
I'm seeking after twa unthankfu' men—
Forgimme gin I wrang them.” “What, hae they,”
Says Nory, “frae yoursell ta'en ought away,
That ye sae weary after them pursue?
Seeking amends, they may do hurt to you.”
“Nae fear o' that,” quo she, “an' we were met,
But I soon right of a' my wrangs wad get.”
“To seek them,” quo she, “ken ye where to gang,
Or to what cuintray thir twa men belang?”
“Well ken I that,” quo Bydby; “I can tell
That they do baith in Flaviana dwell.”
“In Flaviana!” quo she. “Dwell ye there,
That o' their dwelling ye're so very clare?”
“That I do not, nor ken I where it lies,”
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Bydby to her with a syde sigh replies;
“Had I done that, I might been there ere now;
I've spent mair time than wad ha gane't, I trow.”
“Ken ye their names, in case ye gat the place?”
“Well that,” she says, “I ken them, name an' face.
I ken them sae, that I cud hae nae doubt
Frae mony a thousand men to weal them out.”
“How did they ca' them then?” says Nory. “I
Meith may be help you to find out the way.”
“Colen an' Lindy,” Bydby says, “they're ca'd;
The ane an elderen man, the neist a lad—
A bony lad as e'er my eyn did see;
An' dear he is, an' sall be unto me;
His yellow hair down o'er his shouders hang,
As ony lint as bony an' as lang.”
Says Nory: “Lass, your errand is na sma'.
It seems that lad has stown your heart awa',
An' ye are following up wi' what's ahind,
An' your mistak too late may ablins find.
Lads aftentimes poor lasses use to cheat,
An' fan they follow, afttimes tyne the heat.
Gin ye tak my advice, ye've gane enough.”
“I think na that,” she says, an' haflins leugh.
Says Nory: “Gin ye lippen till him sae,
How thro' your fingers hae ye latt'n him gae?”
“That is the question, bony lass, indeed;
Ye now hae hit the nail upo' the head.
I better wi' less travel meith ha dene,
Had I been tenty, as I meith ha been;
But fouks, they say, are wysse ahind the hand,
Whilk to be true unto my cost I fand;
But had the case been yours, as it was mine,
73

Ye meith ha trow'd the raip wad keep the twine.
But maks na matter; gin I had my men,
I hae na fear to mak it knit again.
A's nae in hand that helps, an' it may be
That this may even be the case wi' me.”
“What was the case, my lass, gin I meith speer?”
“That,” co the other, “ye right now shall hear.
'Tis true the tale is nae sae very short,
Nor yet my sell in sick condition for't,
But gin ye like to ware the time on me,
The case, just as it stood, I's lat you see.
'Twill may be keep us baith frae thinking lang,
An' I's lat you consider o' the wrang.”
“Content am I,” she says, “wi' a' my heart;
'Twill ablins learn me how to play my part;
For what's your horse the day may come to be
My mare the morn; oblige me an' be free.”
Then Bydby says: “Shortsyne unto our glen,
Seeking a hership, came yon unko men;
An' our ain lads, albuist I say't my sell,
But guided them right cankardly an' snell:
Gar'd them work hard, an' little sust'nance gae,
That I was even at their guideship wae.
An' ye maun ken that ilka day at noon
I was sent to them with their sma' disjune;
An' fan I saw their piece was but a gnap,
I thought my sell of mending their mishap.
Sae ilka day I stealt to them an eek,
An' row'd it up into my cleanest keek.
I had na aft upo' this errand gane,
Till I am with the love of Lindy tane.
74

What needs me heal't? Na, na, it winna dee;
An' gin I sud, I wad na now be free.
I held it in as lang as well I cud.
An' there's nae help but I maun let it out.
Sae, 'oman, for to mak a lang tale short,
He grants to tak me, sae I wad work for 't:
And what was that, but I maun lat them gae,
Upo' the dead o' night, their bondage frae?
Gin I did sae, that I sud gang alang,
An' syn be marri'd wi' him on a bang.”
Then Nory says, “How comes it, 'oman, then,
Ye ca' sick couthy fouk, unthankfu' men?”
“But byde you yet,” says Bydby, “ye sall hear,
An' find ye need na sick a question speer.
I plays my part, an' lets them win awa';
I mounts an' wi' them aff what we cud ca';
Twa mile ere we drew bridle on we past,
Syne Lindy looks ahind him all agast,
An' says, ‘O Bydby, 'oman, I've forgot
Into yon dreary hole my utter coat.
Now win my benison, an' run again;
We'll byde you here, aneth this meickle stane.’
For Lindy, sure, I wad mak onie shift,
An' back again I scours, what legs cud lift;
Or I came back, an' well I wat short while
Was I a-doing't, I got a beguile:
Naething I got, seek for them what I list,
But a toom hale, an' sae my mark I mist.
I cud na tald you, nor can I do yet,
How sad the sett was that my heart did get.
Now I meith gang, as soon, an' drown my sell,
As offer hame-with, after what befell.
75

Sae on I gaes, an' thinks, an' thinks it yet,
They travell'd aff, reed they a chase might get,
Rather than leave poor me to pine wi' care,
That nae sic treatment at their hands did sair.”
Now by this time the tears came rapping down
Upon her milk-white skin, aneth her gown;
An' Nory's heart was at the tale right sair,
But she was troubled with another care:
Her heart for Lindy now began to beal,
An' was in hover great to think him leal;
But in hersell she smoar'd the dowie care,
Nor wi' the other did her ailment share;
But says, “Ye for him better speak, I fear,
Nor what the case, if sifted well, can bear.”
“Well, it may be, but I'll hope i' the best,
An' be at my wit's end, afore I rest.
But O kind lass! gin ye hae onie guess
How I sud had, whan I gae out o' this,
Tell, an' oblige me mair than I can say;
I's ne'er forget it to my dieing day.”
Quo Helenore: “The gate I dinna ken,
But yet to help you wad be unko fain;
An' gin ye'll gee that bony keek to me,
I's gang a day wi' you, an' may be three.”
“Well mat ye be!” she says. “The keek I's gee,
Gin ye wad gang but ae bare day wi' me.
An' gin we reach na our tryst's end gin night,
Or binna o' that cuintray i' the sight,
Gin ye gae further, I sall gee to you
This bony pouch—see, lass!—of double blue.”
Then Nory says: “Content; but hear me this:
76

A mament's time we hae na need to miss;
Piece ye be tyr'd, ye'll need to rise an' gang;
I' this short night the sky will cast or lang;
Gin I be mist, as doubtless but I will,
Ere we be aff, it a' the sport may spill.
But I maun see what purchase I can mak
Of bread an' cheese, afore the rode we tak;
For to your cost by now I reed ye ken
What 'tis to tak the hill, so bair the ben.
Sae sit ye still a wee, an' I sall be
Back i' the very twinkling of an eye.”
Now Nory had twa irons i' the fire,
An' had to strick them baith a keen desire:
First, to win hame by favour of the lass,
As being fly'd her lane again to pass;
An' neist, to try gin sickan news be true
That she had heard frae Bydby but right now.
She keeps her word, an' back wi' speed she flees,
Wi' baith her pouches pang'd wi' bread an' cheese.
“Now, lass,” she says, “we just maun tak the gate,
An' try the hills, tho' it be dark an' late.
Tho' it be sae, it better is for me:
What gate we had the less our fouks'll see;
For they now trust that I to bed am gane,
An' gin they miss me, we may be o'erta'en.”
“Well mat ye be, an' lat you never ken,
To your experience, what I dree for men!
But gin your strait to me sud e'er be kend,
Ye may lay count to lippen on a friend.
For fouk'll say they ken na what they'll need,
An' ye the will maun now tak for the deed.”
“I mak na doubt,” says Nory, “but we maun
Mak o' our journey now the best we can.”
77

CANTO II.

Wi' lightsome hearts now up the burn they hey,
An' were well on the rode by brak o' day.
Now in a little Nory's mist at hame,
An' for her sake ilk ane did ither blame:
The aunt frae Bess is like to pow the heart,
Because she did na play a better part;
An' Betty's heart is even like to brak,
An' for her does gryt dool an' murther mak.
They wist na fum to send upo' the chase,
Or how to look their cousin i' the face,
That wad na be, they kend, to had nor bind,
Whan he came back, an' her awa' sud find.
Till peep o' day upo' themsels they bear,
Than aunt an' dauther sought her far an' near;
But a' was washing o' the Blackymore;
They boot turn hame, an' even gee it o'er.
The lasses now are linking what they dow,
An' facked never foot, for height nor how.
Whan day was up, an' a' clear round about,
Nory began to ken her former rout,
But loot na on, but fairlyt asa fast
As Bydby cud, at ilka thing they past;
Scream'd at ilk clough, an' skrech'd at ilka how,
As sair as she had seen the wirry-cow.
But Lindy's story held her heart a-steer,
An' ay at ilka sae lang she wad speer:
“An', say ye, had your wooer yellow hair?
Was he well-legged, cherry-cheek'd an' fair?
78

To Flaviana did the lad belang,
That ye alledge has done you sick a wrang?
Was he in earnest, think ye, whan he spak,
An' for that weary coat bade you gae back?
Was Colen, say ye, the auld shepherd's name?
Of your mishap had he ought o' the blame?
Heard ye nae word gin he had cheel or chair,
Or he a jo, that had the yellow hair?”
To a' sick questions Bydby made a shift
To answer, never dreaming Nory's drift.
'Tis now about the lynth hour o' the day,
An' they are posting on whate'er they may,
Baith het an' meeth, till they are haleing down.
The suns he dips, an' clouds grew dusk around;
A' in a clap the fireflaught blinds their eyn;
The thunder roars, an' nae a breath between,
Hurle upon hurle, an' just aboon their head,
That o' their weams they fa' as they were dead;
Sair bet their hearts, the bowdend clouds they brak,
An' pour as out o' buckets o' their back.
Now they conclude that here their truff maun be,
An' lay stane still, not mooving eye nor bree.
An' for misluck, they just were i' the height,
Ay thinking whan the baut wad on then light.
For twa lang hours i' this sad plight they lay.
At last the sun brak throw wi' cheerfu' ray;
Sae piece an' piece they lift them as they dow,
An' see't all ocean down into the how.
79

Whan they gat up, guess ye gin they were fly'd;
Frae the hill-heads burns tumbl'd on ilka side,
Wi' sick a frightsome hurle an' reefu' rair,
The neist thing to the thunder i' the air.
What can they do? Downwith they dare na budge;
Their safest course is on the heights to lodge.
At last an' lang the burns began to fa';
Then down the hill they scour, what they cud ca';
Sometimes they wad, sometimes the burns they lap,
An' sometimes o' their feet and hands they crap;
An' by the time they reach'd another height,
The sun was laigh, an' fast came on the night;
An' naething yet but hills an' muirs in view,
Nor mark nor meith that ever Nory knew.
An' by this time poor Bydby wearies sair,
An' her twa hands begins to wring for care.
But Nory keeps up a good heart, an' says:
“We maunna weary wi' thir rugged braes;
Tyn heart, tyn a'; we'll even tak sic bield
As thir uncouthy heather hills can yield.
The night looks well, the skie's well set an' clear;
Neist day or e'en some cuintray may appear.
We'll ripe the pouch, an' see what scaff is there.
I wat whan I came out it was na bair.”
Sae down they sat, by favour of a stane
That o'er their heads fu' cuthiely did lean;
Unto their supper they right yaply fa';
But Bydby's dridder was na yet awa';
The thunder yet intill her lugs did knell,
An' rouling burns, that roar'd wi' sick a yell.
80

Quo she to Nory: “O, yon dreadfu' crack
I haleumlie thought sud ha been our wrack.
Fly't at my heart I am,” she says, “reed we
Sud the neist day in the same peril be.”
Says Nory: “Na, yon summer sob is out.
This night looks well, look, 'oman, round about.
The morn, I hope, will better prove, an' we
Or e'en may chance some inwith place to see.”
An' yet her tongue was falt'ring whan she spak,
For e'en her heart wi' fear was like to brak.
But still an' on, she wad hae forret been,
To ken the verity she was sae keen.
Syne piece an' piece together down they crap,
An' crack till baith o' them fell on a nap.
Their day-time toil had wrought them sick a wrack
That, or they ee'd, the sun bet o' their back.
Fain were they baith o' the new light o' day,
An' that the night had stealt sae fast away.
Their eyn they rub, an' spy a' round about,
Thinking what gate that day to had their rout.
Nae meiths they had but northlins still to gae,
Kenning that gate that Flaviana lay.
Now frae the height where they had ta'en their bield,
Far in a how they spie a little shiel;
Some peep o' reek out at the naip appears.
“What's yon?” at Nory Bydby shortly speers.
Then Nory says: “I see a house it lane,
Tho' far or near but it I see na ane.
What can they be that wins sae by themsell
In this wide wilderness, I canna tell.”
81

“Be what they like, I think we'll gang an' speer,”
Says Bydby, “gin our tryst's end we be near.”
“I wat na,” Nory says, “they're may be men—
I'm sure nae woman wins in sick a glen—
An' may be kettrin. I hae heard fouk say
That sick do wake a' night, an' sleep a' day,
Tak in fouk's nout an' sheep, an' eat them there;
That sick be they, it's born o' me sair.”
“O,” Bydby says, “I dinna think it's sae;
I see a bought ayont it on a brae;
Somebody here is shealing wi' their store
In summer time; I've heard the like afore.
We'll cast about, an' come upo' the boucht.”
“Content,” says Nory, “it is nae ill thought.
I think I see't my sell; we'll wear in by;
Gin we get there, 'tis time to milk the ky.”
Sae down they fare, an' rough, rough was the brae,
Wi' craigs an' scrabs a' scatter'd i' the way.
As they drew near, they heard an eldren dey
Singing fu' sweet at milking o' her ky.
In by they come, an' hails'd her cheerfully.
The wife looks up, some little in surprise,
An' leaning o' the boucht the maidens spies,
An' taks hersell, an' says, “Wha have I here?
This day ye seem to be right soon asteer.”
Quo they: “We hae ga'en will, an' out a' night,
An' spy'd this sheal, an' came to be set right.
Be but sae kind as tell us where we be,
An' ye's get thanks—'tis a' we hae to gee.”
Quo she: “Unto the sheal step ye o'er by,
An' warm yoursels, till I milk out my ky.
This morning's raw; gin ye've a' night been out,
82

That ye wad thole a warm I mak na doubt,
An' something mair, I's warrant. Ca' your wa',
The door it stands wide open to the wa'.
Hadd on a cow, till I come o'er the gate,
An' do the best you can to hadd you hett.”
The lasses bidding do, an' o'er they gaes,
An' of bleech'd birns pat on a canty bleeze.
Content they were at sick a lucky kyle,
An' fand they had na met wi' a beguile.
On skelfs a' round the wa's the cogs were set,
Ready to ream, an' for the cheese be het;
A hake was frae the rigging hinging fu'
Of quarter kebbocks, tightly made an' new.
Behind the door, a calour heather bed,
Flat o' the floor, of stanes an' fail was made.
An' lucky shortly follow'd o'er the gate
Wi' twa fu' leglins, froathing o'er an' het;
Syne ream'd her milk, an' set it o' the fire;
An' bade them eek the bleeze, an' nae to tyre;
That cruds, their weamfu', they sud get on haste,
As fresh an' gueed as ever they did taste.
Sair looked she on Nory's bony face,
An' says: “Young lass, I wiss you meikle grace.
Sweet are your looks, an' of gueed nature fu'!
He'll get nae blind that chances to get you.
Your bony rozered cheeks an' blinking eyn
Minds me upon a face I've some time seen.
Well look ye baith! I dinna mean to lack
The ane, whan I but o' the ither spak.
Nae o' the worst ye look as ye were come,
83

But o' the best o' cuintray fouk, an' some.
Ye baith for me may ae man's bairns be,
An' may be no, it maks nae thing to me.
What cast has fashen you sae far frae towns?
I'm sure to you thir canna be kent bounds:
Ten miles frae onie town this shealing lies,
An' to see here sick twa is gryte surprise;
An' still the mair at sick a time o' day;
'Twou'd seem indeed that ye had tint the way.”
Says Nory till her: “Is the fairly gryte,
Here an' sae early too, sick twa to get?
As gryt's our fairly to see you win here,
Sae far frae towns, nor onie neiper near:
I wonder just ye dinna die for fear.
But are the cows your ain, gin I might speir?”
“O never ane of them belongs to me.
They are the laird's, well mat his honour be!
My ain gueed bairn, that sucked me fu' sweet,
An's ay kind to me when we chance to meet.
Thir twenty simmers now I hae been here,
An' he ay came to see me ilka year
But this alane, an' well I ken the cause:
The faut was nane of his, but his papa's.
But thanks to praise! I hear the carl's dead;
My bairn'll now get leave to lift his head,
An' of a wardly hulgy-back get free
That he design'd his wedded wife to be.
Now he will get his choice, fum he likes best,
Syn the auld man has ta'en him till his rest.
Afore lang days I hope to see him here,
About his milkness and his cows to speer.”
Now Nory, hearing this, begins to guess
This was the squire that took her frae distress;
84

An' at her speers how they his style did ca'.
The wife replies, “His style is Bony-ha'.
An' bony is't, an' wealthy, wealthy, he.
Well will she fa' that wins his wife to be.”
Now Nory kens she in her guess was right,
But loot na wit that she had seen the knight;
But at her speers how far frae this awae
She thought the braes of Flaviana lay.
“Nae near, my cheel,” she says; “but ye are wrang,
To Flaviana gin ye mean to gang:
O'er heigh by far ye've ta'en up thro' the glen;
Of miles frae it ye are na down of ten.
Gang east, but ay some northlins hadd your cast,
Till ye a bony water see at last.”
Wi' thir directions they their course pursue,
An' gee auld mammy thanks, as was her due;
Right cheerfully the road they did tak in,
An' thought that night to their tryst's end to win;
An' wad hae don't, but Nory, wha had ay
A mind the truth of Bydby's tale to try,
Made shift by 'bout-gates to put aff the day,
Till night sud fa', an' force them there to stay;
Meaning neist day to send the lass before,
When they sud be in sight of Lindy's door,
Syne follow fast hersell, an' just slip in
Upo' them ere they wist, but onie din.
Accordingly, ere they the water wan,
That the auld dey tauld near the cuintray ran,
Night fa's, an' they maun tak the chance of bield,
Anes mair, that glens an' hill an' heather yield.
Their browden breasts that night took little sleep,
An' turs'd again as soon's the day did peep.
In a short space they out the water fand.
Says Bydby, “Flaviana's now at hand;
Well fell me now, my lad I'll shortly see,
85

An' at the sight blyth at the heart will be.”
As they the water past, an' up the brae,
Where Nory monie a time had wont to play,
Her heart wi' nettie grief began to rise,
Whan she sae grytly alter'd saw the guise:
No herds nor gueeds were now to be seen there,
But a' was toom an' heartless like an' bare.
Her dowie pain she had na power to heal;
The heart, they'll say, will never lee, that's leal.
For whan they wan the height, an' i' the how
Observ'd the bigging by a bony know,
She says: “My heart is like to gang awa',
An' I maun e'en sit down, or else I'll fa'.
But yonder, 'oman, 's houses; gang an' speer
Gin unto Flaviana we be near.
Gin we be right, I'll ken as ye byde still;
Gin we be wrang, ye'll come again an' tell;
An' I will rest till I come to mysell.”
Then Bydby frankly taks the gate before,
An' was na lang till she wan Lindy's door,
That by the cast o' ground the nearest lay,
Just at the bottom of a sunny brae.
My lass slips in, says calmly, “Peace be here!
Is this, or is't to Flaviana near?”
Lindy, who was into the house him lane,
Wi' heart for Nory heavy like a stane,
Lifts up his head, an' looking butt the floor,
Sees Bydby standing just within the door.
Th'unwelcome sight put to his heart a knell,
That he was hardly master o' himsell;
Yet says: “Come ben—ow, Bydby, is that ye?
86

Foul fa' that coat that you sick cark did gee!
Ye meith ha flung't awa', an' turn'd again;
Of half your travel it's not worth the pain.
But maks na; syn ye're come, ye's be well paid;
Sit down an' rest you, an' right now ye's hae't;
The worth o't twice in claith or waith ye's get;
I canna say but I am i' your debt.”
“Aw, Lindy, is this ye? Well fell my sell!
But wae's me, that ye sud sick tidings tell!
Your claith an' waith will never tell wi' me,
Tho' ye a thousand led thereof cud gee;
I am well sair'd o' claith, syn I took gate;
That coat o' yours has geen me sick a sett.
But out o' jest, for claith I came na here,
But for the thing that was by far mair dear:
'Twas for your sell, man, that I dreed this pain;
Sae onie other profers are but vain.
Wad I, think ye, for less hae follow'd you,
Or can I think that less can be my due?
Was't na your paction, ere I loot you gae,
That just yoursell I for my hire sud hae?
Alas! alas! o'er late it seems I find;
I first was left, an' now am come behind.
But think na, man, that I'll be set aff sae,
For I'll hae satisfaction ere I gae.
I's get a hire! A bony tale indeed!
Ye spak na that gate i' your time of need.
Where's Colen? I's refer my part to him,
An' gin he says I'm wrang, I's quyte my claim;
He witness'd a' that past, an' shar'd himsell
Part o' the gueed, an' can the better tell.”
“Well, I'm content,” says Lindy; “gin he say't,
There's be nae mair about it, ye sall hae't.”
This spak he, lippning Colen wad deny,
An' sae betweesh them score poor Bydby by.
87

As they were at this dibberdery thrang,
An' Bydby still complaining o' her wrang,
Jean, wha had seen her coming o'er the moor,
Thinking 'twas Nory, steps within the door.
She never minds her, but tells on her tale
Right bauld an' bardoch, likely like an' hail.
Jean mair nor wonder'd sick a threap to see,
An' wist na fum to file or fum to free;
But thought indeed, gin sickan things were true,
That Nory soon had slipped out of view.
Now by this time poor Nory's mair nor fain
The truth o' Bydby's unko tale to ken;
An' just at Lindy's door comes slipping in,
When they're just i' the fix-fax o' their din.
Jean looks ahind her, an' her Nory spies;
Judge ye gin she met wi' a glad surprise;
Out gusht her eyn, but word she cud na say,
Sae hamphis'd was she atweesh glee an' wae;
Her in her oxter hard an' fast she grips,
An' prest her flaunt'ring mou upon her lips.
Lindy looks also butt, an' Nory spies,
An' “O my Nory! O my Nory!” cries;
Flaught-bred upon her, but the house he sprang,
An' frae her mither's oxter fiercelings wrang,
An' “O my Nory! my dear Nory!” cries;
“Sweet, sweet indeed to me is this surprise!”
Kisses upon her he prest on enew,
But she was shey, and held her head askew,
An' cries, “Lat be, ye kiss but luckie fast;
Ye're o'er well us'd, I fear, syn we met last.”
88

Look'd at him with the bawaw o' her eye,
As drum an' dorty as young miss wad be
To country Jock, that needs wad hae a kiss
Ev'n nolens volens frae the dainty miss.
Thir words a wee did slacken Lindy's fire,
An' put some stop to his sae bauld desire.
Blyth at her heart was Bydby at the sight,
An' thought indeed that she had sair'd him right;
But thought the sheep she'd geen the wouf to had,
Whan she had choice of sick a neiper made;
An' turning till her, says: “I find that now
I plaid wrang cards whan I came out wi' you.
I meith ha kent, had I not senseless been,
That ye for nought wad not be half so keen;
But maksna, be the matter as it may,
To stap your claim I hae enough to say:
Whatever meith atweesh you been before,
I'm sure that I was last into the score;
I hae his hand, his troth, an' what needs mair?
Cros't gin he can, just where he's standing there.”
“'Tis nae sick thing,” says Lindy; “or gin I
Some sick like words meith happen for to say,
They've been but say'n to please a fool like you;
Nae man o' ten likes women them to woo;
For our acquaintance was but lucky short
For me or any man to play sick sport.”
“Why did ye sae?” says Bydby, “for ye had
In your ain hand to hadd baith haft an' blade;
Tho' I did wiss indeed, an' wist it sair,
That ye were mine, even ilka hilt an' hair,
I cud na force you to gee your consent;
But syn ye gae't, ye sud nae now repent.
89

Ye need na mak a faut to tell me now
Ye never meant to stand by sick a vow,
But only please a witless fool like me;
But say, ‘Play bairns,’ your fool I winna be.
'Twas earnest wark, lad, that I did for you,
An' ye wi' me maun deal in earnest now;
I've plaid my part, I fear, an' something mair;
Play ye now yours, an' be to me as fair;
Or I sall tell you ae thing, that's nae twa:
Our lads an' ye'll about it pluck a craw;
For forty groats I wad na stand your stowr,
Gin they this gate but tak anither tour;
An' sure I am that it will not be lang
Till they be here, complaining o' their wrang.”
That Nory's come, the news is gaing ding-dang,
An' a' the neipers unto Lindy's thrang.
Colen her father, wha had outwith gane,
But heard it last, an' sae came in him lane.
An' as he came, him glegly Bydby spy'd,
An' “Welcome, Colen! mair na welcome!” cry'd.
“Come here, and red this threap, for ye can tell
The very truth, 'cause ye heard a' your sell,
Ken a' that past, ear- an' eye-witness was
To a' that did 'tweesh me an' Lindy pass.
Come, Colen, now, an' gimme kyle about;
I helped you whan nane else wad, I doubt;
Naething but justice I do crave of you;
To tak me, tell gin Lindy did na vow.
Tho' I'm amo' you cast like a slung stane,
I was like ither fouk at hame, ye ken;
An' gin ye had but plaid me haflins fair,
I needed na hae dree'd sae mikle care.
90

But maks na, now I'm here, fu' plainly tell
The naked truth, afore the lad himsel.”
Syne Colen says: “I maun indeed confess
Ye lent's a lift in our right gryte distress;
For cause o' which I own 'tis good, our part,
Wi' our best wiss that ever ye be sairt;
An' ye sall find it sae, afore we part.
An' piece 'tis true, an' true it is, I grant,
To marry you that Lindy made a vaunt,
'Cause we was at a pinch to win awa',
Yet to the head the nail ye manna ca';
That ye was geck'd, to say, ye's hae na need:
Ye's get a hitch unto your tocher-gueed.
Well are ye worth it at our hand the day,
An' ye sall get it wi' you ere ye gae.”
“Na, Colen, na, 'tis well ye tell the truth;
At hame of tocher-gueed I hae a fouth;
'Twas na for geer that I my fouks forsook,
An' ran the risk to win their sair downlook;
Na, bimmy troth it, Lindy's what I want,
By promise mine, as ye right now did grant.
Speak nae mair o' your hires; 'tis he alane
Sall be my hire, for ither I'll hae nane.”
“Aw, but,” says Colen, “ye sud na gird sae sair.
What winna fouk engage, that's under care?
Wi' premunire hamphis'd, as were we,
Fouk wad say onie thing to get them free.”
“Gin gryt your premonire was,” she said,
“Ye sud the better mind how ye was free'd.
But words I winna langer using be,
Nor will sick aff-setts do the turn wi' me.
91

For haleumlie to tak me he did bind,
An' hae'm I will, there's nae a word behind.”
“Aw, but,” says Colen, “what gin he dinna like you?
Better to want him than he sud begeck you.”
“Tis a' ane,” she says, “for I do like him sair,
An' that he wad ly too, I hae nae fear;
Had o' the bargain we made an outred,
We's nae be heard upo' the midden head;
That he's gueed-natur'd onie ane may see,
That's nae stane-blind, or has but half an eye.”
Then Colen says: “But ye may be mista'en;
The face has been a cheat to mony ane;
Afftimes the still sow eats up a' the draff,
When canker'd looks prove not so ill by half;
There's monie bite an' sup wi' little din
That wad na gree a straik at mooling in.
Sae gin the face be a' ye lippen till,
Ye may hae little cause to roose your skill.”
“Maks na,” quo she; “gin I my hazard tak,
About it ither fouks sma' sturt may mak.”
By now all eyes upo' them sadly gaz'd,
An' Lindy looked blate, an' sair bumbaz'd;
The collyshangie raise to sick a height
That, maugre him, things wad na now hadd right;
For Nory's heart began to cool right fast
Fan she saw things had taken sick a cast,
An' sae thro' ither warpl'd were, that she
Began to dread atweesh them what meith be;
An' even thought her travel but ill wair'd
For her convoy, an' that she was ill sair'd;
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An' frae her heart now wist she had na been
In coming aff wi' Bydby hauf sae keen:
For what she fear'd, she now in earnest fand,
About this threap, was closs come till her hand;
An' that tho' Lindy may be might ly too,
The lass had just as gueed a claim as she;
An' that the bargain might hae little thrift,
To bring't about, tho' they sud mak a shift.
Yet still her thought she keeped till hersell,
But O! her heart fand monie a dowie knell.
But she was sure, when Lindy's eyn were sett
The way to her, to look the tither gate.
Now by this time the house is heels o'er head,
For ae thing some, an' some anither said;
That day nor door a body cud na hear,
For a' things now were put in sick a steer.
An' Jean an' Colen now were mair nor fain
To crack wi' Nory, an' her story ken;
Wi' gryt hamstram they thrimbl'd frae the thrang,
An' gae a nod to Nory furth to gang;
Upo' the ground they hunker'd down a' three,
An' to their crack they yoked fast an' free:
“What was't came o'er thee, lassie,” Colen says,
“At sick a time o' night to tak the braes?
I mair nor fairly what cud be your haste;
Ye cud na think to succour man nor beast;
Sad is the heart-crack ye to us hae geen,
An' dowie for your cause my hap has been;
An' dowie yet is like to be our day
About this threap; yon cummer is na play.”
Then Nory, with her finger in her eye,
An' heart as gryt's a peat, began to free
93

Her sell to them the best way that she mought,
Saying: “The dreary news set me a-flought,
An' ere I took mysell, I had o'er gane
A' meiths or marks that I afore did ken.
Merk as the pick night down upo' me fell;
What my condition was I sanna tell.
Let ne'er my fae be hauf so hard bestead,
Or forc'd to byde the bydings that I bade:
Sick yowls an' yells, as wad hae thirl'd a stane,
Was never heard, as I heard there my lane.
Whan day came in—an' welcome was the sight,
After the eery, black an' frightsome night—
Nae airths I kend, nor what was east by west,
But took the rode as it came i' my cast;
Sae wi' a dowie heart, an' hungry weam,
I wandert, wissing that I were at hame;
Bat wist na whither I made till't or fae't;
But for the herds an' gueeds ill was I paid.
What ganks I met with now I sanna tell,
But at the last upo' a burn I fell,
Wi' bony even rode, an' in-with sett;
Ye meith hae row'd an apple a' the gate.
Sick like I mind aft-times to hear you tell
That fouk sud follow, whan they hae ga'en will.
This I'll had down, but meith, meith was the day;
The summer cauts were dancing brae frae brae.
Wi' faut an' heat I just was like to swelt,
An' in a very blob o' sweat to melt.
Nae help there was but there lay down my head
Aneth a tree, an' wait for welcome dead.
I had na lang beneath the shadow lien
Whan sleep steal't o' me an' beguil'd my pain;
94

Three hours, as I by time o' day cud guess,
At ease I lay, an' brook'd that happiness.
But when I waken'd, to my gryt surprise,
Wha's standing but a laird afore my eyes?
The bonniest lad that ever I had seen,
Wi' yellow strips clad in a coat of green;
Upon his bow he lean'd his milk-white hand;
A bony boy a thoughty aff did stand.
Gryt shame I thought sae to be gotten there,
An' was for fear the neist thing to despair;
In running aff lay my relief, I thought,
But o' my claiths he took a swippert claught;
Bade me nae fear, for I sud kep nae skaith;
To do me wrang, that he wad be right laith.
He spak sae kindly, couthy like, an' fair,
An' pray'd to tell what way I had come there,
That at mair saught my mind began to be;
Syne he some meat his boy gar'd gee me;
Neist me persuades to gang wi' him a' night
Where I sud be well ta'en about an' right.
Gin night we came unto a gentle place,
An' as he promis'd, sae I fand the case:
Kind was the lady, for nae men I saw,
An' gar'd me ly wi' her ain dather bra'.
Well was I there, I wiss I'd bidden still,
Had ye but kend I had na met wi' ill.
But ae night, as I'm spying out about,
Wi' heart unsettl'd ay, ye need na doubt,
Wha coming gatewards to me does I see,
But this snell lass that came the day wi' me?
Sae, finding she for Flaviana sought,
‘This is a happy kyle for me,’ I thought.
95

Sae what needs mair? Together aff we came,
An' o'er high hills an' fearsome cloughs we clamb.”
Ralph, mean time, to the door comes wi' a rin,
An' prays that Jean and Nory wad gang in,
An' try gin they yon fiery lass cud tame,
That wi' her tongue had a' set in a flame;
“An' shoops so hard yon heartless lad to gird,
That just he looks as he'd fa' through the yerd.”
Quo Jean, “We's try't, but she looks ill to ca',
An' o'er auld-mou'd, I dread, is for us a'.”
As they gang in, Ralph unto Colen says,
“Yon hobbleshaw is like some stour to raise.
Fat think ye o't? For as we use to say,
The web seems now to a' be made of wae.”
Says Colen, for he was a sicker boy:
“Neiper, I fear this is a kittle ploy;
Gin we the gully guide na now wi' can,
'T may chance to gee's a sneck into the hand;
Yon lass maun not be dung, but dauted sair;
It winna do to keam against the hair.
At first I thought but little o' the thing,
But mischief frae a midge's wing may spring;
I never dream'd things wad hae come this length,
But we have seen e'en shargers gather strength
That seven years hae sitten i' the flet,
An' bangsters bauld upo' their boddom set.
That sick'll be the case, I now dread sair,
Sae we'll be fools to tamper wi' her mair.
If with hersell we had alane to do,
We might find shifts for stapping o' her mou—
An' even that, I doubt, wad cost a pu'—
But we have a' her cuintray's fead to byde,
O'er great a pow'r by far for our weak side.
96

We a', but maist the lad himsell, an' I,
Ken they're nae fouks for our weak hands to try.
She pleads a promise, and it's very true;
But he had naething but a jamphing view;
But she in gnapping earnest taks it a':
The bargain was that she sud lat's awa'.
She plaid her part, an' freed us o' our care,
An' now hads till't, that we sud be as fair.
O' her ere now we try'd to shake us free,
But she has scented out the rode, ye see.
Gryt waters aften rise frae silly springs,
An' there is e'en a providence in things:
By rackligence wi' Nory she had met,
Wha wad be fain her company to get,
Wha in her daffry had run o'er the score;
An' that has even fashen her to the door.
Gin we fike on till her ain fouks come here,
Ye'll see a' things intill a bony steer;
For they're a derf an' root-hewn cabbrack pack,
An' stark like stanes, an' soon wad prove our wrack.
Sae we had better jouk until the jaw
Gang o'er our heads, than stand afore't, an' fa'.
An' sae I hadd it best ye bid the lad
Lay's hand to heart, an' to the bargain hadd.
For it ungangs me sair gin at the last
To gang together binna found the best.”
Says Ralph: “Well, neiper, I hae heard your tale,
An' even fairly at it ilka dale,
Kenning that ye're nae strange to what has been
Your dather an' my laddie lang between;
97

An' even we had greed it 'tweesh oursells;
Sick council now but of unkindness smells.”
“Ye need na fairly, Ralph, nor be in ire,”
Says Colen, “for brunt bairns dread the fire;
Had ye came thro' their fingers, as did I,
Ye wad na be in swidder to comply.
I'll wad my head, ere four an' twenty hours,
That what's my mind the day shall then be yours;
For the Sevitians will but doubt be here,
An' dacker for her as for stollen geer;
An' what hae we a-conter them to say?
The geer'll proof it sell, piece we deny.
They'll threap we steal'd her, she'll had till't hersell,
An' then there'll naething be but sad pell-mell;
Syne deil fell us, the weak wins ay the warr;
Sae we at first had better to take care.”
“Well, neiper,” Ralph replies, “I ken that ye
Had ay a gueed an' sound advice to gee;
For it's nae yesterday that I cud spy
That ye thro' things did farther see than I;
Sae for my part, I'm willing to submit
To what your glegger wisdom shall think fit,
Gin that unhappy lad wad be sae wyse
As but ly too, an' tak your good advice.”
Quo he, “Ye canna better do than try;
Ye's hae my in-put to mak him comply;
Cry ye him forth, we's till him lay the lines,
He's do't, or what he hads of me, he tyns.”
Ralph does his bidding, an' out Lindy comes.
His father says, “Lay by, man, thir humdrums,
An' look na mair like Watty to the worm;
Gin ye hae promis'd, what but now perform?
Among us a' a ravell'd hesp ye've made,
Sae now put too your hand, an' help to red;
Ye ken yoursell best where ye tint the end,
98

Sae ye maun foremost gae the miss to mend.
'Tis nae to mird wi' unko fouk, ye see,
Nor is the bleer drawn easy o'er their eye;
Ye hae yoursell wi' yon snell maiden locked,
Wha winna thole wi' affsetts to be jocked;
An' sae, my lad, my councel's ye be low'n,
An' tak a drink o' sick as ye hae brown;
That's out o' jest an' in in earnest, spark;
As ye began, sae ye maun end this wark;
An' tak yon lass, that will nae affsett hear;
'Tis nae enough, for you we byde sick deare.”
Says Lindy: “Father, this is hard enough,
Against ane's will to coup them o'er a heugh,
With open eyn upo' the fearsome skaith;
To play sick pranks I will be very laith.
That ye car'd naething it wad vively seem
Whether poor I sud either sink or swim;
But since ye've cast'n a careless count 'bout me,
I maunna sae, but to my sell maun see;
Sae I maun tell you ae thing, that's nae twae:
As soon I'll take the Scot of Galloway;
For ye baith ken my mind to hae been set,
These seven years an' mair, anither gate.
I wad na think that sick wyse fouk as ye
Wou'd to your ain sick wrangous counsel gee.
I wat na gin ye wad have thankfu' been
To onie wad yoursells sick counsel geen,
Whan ye war young, an' had your fancy fix'd;
At your ain hearts I fear ye wad been vex'd.
99

An' monie a time have I e'en heard you baith
Say, ye to cross your litleanes wad be laith.”
“Well, Lindy man,” says Colen, “that's a' true;
But then was then, my lad, an' now is now;
'Bout then-a-days we never met wi' cross,
Nor kend the ill of conters or of loss.
But now the guise is alter'd very sair,
An' we sair new'd, an' kaim'd against the hair;
We now maun tak the warld as it waggs,
An' for hail claith be now content wi' raggs;
Anes on a day we thought the wind wad blaw
Ay in our backs; that warld's now awa',
An' this is come, an' we may not strive wi't,
But e'en submit: the life, my lad, is sweet.
Whan a's awa', we strive to keep that grip,
An' tak odd shifts afore we let it slip.
For Nory, man, ye need na fash your thumb,
Nor keep her mair intil anither's room;
I lear by far she dy'd like Jinken's hen,
Or we again met yon unruly men.
Sae there's nae time to swidder 'bout the thing:
I'll wad her cuintray fouk sall no be dring
In seeking her, an' gar us sadly rew
That ever we their name or nature knew;
Nae farther back 'bout them need we to look
Than how of late they you and me did nook.”
Thus at their bargain I my lads maun leave,
Till of the squire some short account I give,
Who to his aunt returning miss'd his pout,
An' was in unko rage, ye wad na doubt:
100

For her he just was like to burn the town,
An' to seek for her, made him shortly boun;
Sends for his friends to help him far an' near,
An' to the hills land-gates his course did steer;
An' did him to the glens directly hy
Where his auld mammy kept his store an' ky.
Blyth was the wife her foster-son to see,
An' sain'd him o'er an' o'er right cheerfullie;
An' tauld him that she now was mair nor fain
That kind gueed luck had letten him till his ain,
Afore mishap had forc'd him to comply
Unto a match to which he was so thry.
“Well,” says he, “mammy, a' that's very gueed.
But come, let's try how tasts your cheese and bread;
But meantime gee's a waught of callour whey;
The day is meith, an' we are wond'rous dry.”
“Your honor shall get that just in a stound,
An' my sweet benison to put it down;
That wi' your ain 'tis fit ye sud be sair'd,
An' piece 'twere mine, well wad I think it wair'd.”
“But,” says the squire, “saw ye nae country lass,
Some o' thir days, down throw this forrest pass?”
“Indeed,” quo she, “but yesterday I saw,
Nae farer gane, gang by here lasses twa,
That had gane will, an' been the forth a' night.
But O! ane o' them was a seelfu' sight.
Blind mat I be, an' I am now threescore,
Gin ever I saw the maik o' her before!
Her yellow hair that up in rings a' row'd
Look'd i' the sun just like the threads of goud.
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Some face I've seen she brings into my view,
But wha it is I canna mind me now.
The ither, too, was a right setting lass,
But forthersome, but calm yon tither was.
Afore I wist, they just were hard in by,
As I was busy milking at my ky;
At me syne shortly they began to speer
Gin they were into Flaviana near.”
“For Flaviana speer'd they?” said the squire;
“Heard ye nae word what was their errand there?”
“Indeed, an't like your honor, I dinna ken:
For me to speer wad nae gueed havings been.
I gae them cruds an' milk, an' thought indeed
That of some sust'nance they had meikle need.
An' by my guess I stroove to set them right,
Syne in a glent they were out o' my sight.”
The squire, a wee when he had chaw'd his cood
On luckie's tale, does with himsell conclude,
Lat what the ither meith hae been, that she
That was sae roos'd boot his ain Nory be.
“Well,” says the squire, “'twas well ye gar'd them eat;
Among thir hills fouk ay have need of meat.
Wha kens but sickan kindness may meet you,
An' be some day unto you worth a cow?
Lat nane gae hungry by that ye see here,
But gee them ay part o' your cuintray cheer;
I well allow't, ye's nae be scrimpt o' meal,
An' ye hae fouth o' milk within yoursell.”
“'Tis ill done,” quo she, “to lie upo' the dead:
The laird ay bade me deal a piece o' bread,
102

An' I thought ay ye wad brak naething aff;
I mind ye liked ay to see a raff.”
“Well, nurse,” says he, “knit on o' the auld thrum,
An' gae nae ground to say a warse is come;
What ever ye did afore, do better now;
He's nae your fae that has to count wi' you.
But hark ye, noorise, what I'm gaing to say:
We'll be again within a day or twae;
Upo' your milk your skilly hand ye'll try,
An' gee's a feast o't as we're coming by.”
“I well I wat,” quo she, “I's do my best
Wi' half a dozen o' sorts to please your taste.
Baith soon an' well, my cheel, mat ye come back!
An' binna angry at my hamely crack—
For well I ken what is your honour's due—
But let a word wi' your auld mammy now;
An' hear me this ae word, my bony laird:
A' that I've doon I'll think the better wair'd
That a young lady I see you fash hame;
Ye'll no thram well as lang's ye byde your lane.”
“Well, mammy,” quo he, “I's tak your advice,
An' hae ane o' them, gin they binna nice.”
“Nae fear o' that,” quo she. “Be nice, ha, ha!
To tak the wealthy laird of Bony-ha'!
They're nae sick fools, ye'd tensome get for ane,
Were it the fesson, as they say 't has been.
Well worth her room was your gueed lady mither;
See ye like her gin ye can weal anither.”
Now by the time that they their piece had ta'en,
A' in a brattle to the gate they're gane,
An' soon are out o' the auld noorise sight,
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To dress her milks hersell who shortly dight.
Sick speed they made that in an hour or twa
They i' the sight of Flaviana fa';
Their milk-white lads, I's warrant half a score,
At a gueed rake were running on before.
Now a' this time baith Ralph and Colen try
Their outmost art to mak the lad comply;
But he continu'd obstinat an' thry.
As they're thus thrang, the gentles come in view,
A' in a breast upon a bony brow.
Amazed at the sight, they stood stane-still,
As o' them gin some witch had try'd her skill;
Nae word they spak till they came close in by,
The sight amo' them had rais'd sick a fry.
The squire, that foremost rode in armour sheen,
Cry'd “Stop, good friends!” an' lighted o' the green.
To the three men he shortly turns, that gaz'd,
An' looked doited, speechless, an' bumbaz'd,
An' to them says, “Friends, be so good as tell
Gin ane height Colen hereabouts doth dwell.”
This question made the shepherds sae agast
That as the quaking asp they shook as fast,
Nae kenning what to think, or what to say,
Or what to do wi' Colen sick cud hae.
Soon cud he see they were wi' fear o'erta'en,
An' couthyly bespeaks them thus again:
“Fear na, good shepherds, fear na at this sight;
We never meant to put you in a fright;
For peace we're come, an' only want to ken
Gin ane height Colen wins into this glen.”
“A well, an't like your honor,” Colen says,
“Indeed ane o' that name wins i' thir braes.
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But it is mair nor strange what ane like you
Sud hae wi' sick a hame-bred man to do.
For well I wat I never yet did wrang
To gryte nor sma', syn I had pith to gang.”
“Are you the man?” the squire then maks reply.
“I am,” he says, “my name I'll not deny.”
The squire as soon's the verity he fand
Straight taks the honest shepherd by the hand,
Wha, ferlying at the kindness, gae a jook,
But did confus'd an' unko shame-fu' look.
Soon cud the squire his blate confusion see,
An' says, “Tak heart, ye's get nae wrang frae me,
But a' the good that's i' my power to do.
But tell me, does this house belang to you?”
“Deed no,” he says, “but mine is just at hand,
An' it an' I are baith at your command;
'Tis true 'tis barer than it wont to be,
But nane themsels can from mischances free.
Nae monie days aback I mair cud say,
But fouk sud no be vain o' what they hae.”
“I've heard sae,” says the squire, “but never mind,
Nor at such pinching antercasts repine;
'Tis but a cloud afore the clear sun shine:
Ye'll see anither change, or few days gang,
An' yet be just as right as ye was wrang.”
As they're thus cracking, a' the house thrangs out,
Gouping an' gazing at this new-come rout;
Wi' some surprise the squire behads the thrang,
An' speers gin a' did to ae house belang;
An' had na said it, whan out at the door,
Just at her mither's back, comes Helenore.
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He sees the sight, then wi' a fircelins bang
In throw the thickest o' the crowd he sprang,
An' in a hint he clasp't her hard an' fast,
With baith his gardies round about the waist;
An' laid a thousand on her bony mou,
That was as red as rose that ever grew;
Then said: “Sweet Nory, ye was sair to blame,
Sae to gang aff afore that I came hame;
But since we're met, I think my pains well wairt;
There shall be news afore again we part.”
Poor shamefu' Nory wist na how to look,
Sae to be kist afore sae monie fouk;
Look up she cud na, but her apron strings,
As fast's she cud, row'd up an' down in rings.
But O the unko gazing that was there
Upon poor Nory, an' her gentle squire!
An' ae thing some, and some anither said,
But fairly few of faults poor Nory freed,
Peice that she fautless was maun be allow'd;
But travell'd women are but sindle trow'd.
But a' their cushel-mushel was but jest
Unto the coal that brunt in Lindy's breast;
Sad were the dunts and knells yeed to his heart,
To think that Nory had misplaid her part;
An' now began to think, 'twas nae for nought
That o' his welcome she so little thought,
When sick a squire about her was so thrang;
Out o' his witts he just was like to mang,
Thinking for her to come to sick a pass,
An' a' seem'd now but scores amo' the ase.
But sick a crowd the squire, surpris'd to see,
At Colen speers what cud its meaning be.
“Indeed, an't like your honor,” Colen says,
106

“Sick other threap saw I not a' my days
As now is here; but wimpl'd is the tale;
Ye'd weary sair afore I tell'd it haill.
But gin to red it ye wad please to try,
'Twould be indeed an act of charity.”
“Let's hear't,” he says, “an' I sall do my best,
Gin parties on my sentence like to rest.
Tell on your tale, an' naething o' it miss.”
“I sall,” quo Colen, “an' the tale is this:
Frae this aback, an' that nae monie days,
A band of kettrin hamphis'd a' our braes;
Ca'd aff our store at twelve hours o' the day,
Nor had we maughts to turn again the prey;
Sair bargain made our hirds to hadd again,
But what needs mair? A' was but wark in vain.
The herds came hame, an' made a reefu' rair,
An' a' the braes rang loud wi' dool an' care.
My lassie, that it seems your honor's seen,
Frae kindness that ye shown her o' this green,
Like ane hairbrain'd into the glens taks gate,
When now the night was gloomy, merk an' late.
Wi' our surprise she's nae mist till the morn,
An' now her mither blaws on me the horn,
An' I maun aff, an' seek her right or wrang,
An' monie a bootless fit did for her gang;
An' at the last I fell amo' my faes,
The cruel kettrin of Sevitia's braes.
An' that lad there ye see wi' yellow hair
Did wi' me of the worst of chances share:
Into their hands we baith together fell,
An' they did guide's, I 'shure you, sharp an' snell:
107

Band's hard a' night, an' toil'd us hard a' day,
An' for our pains but sma' allowance gae.
The maiden o' the house saw our mishap,
An' out o' sight gae's monie a bit an' drap;
An' shortly to the lad sick liking took
That butt him she nae saught nor ease cud brook.
Nae ither boot she had but tell her care
Came frae the lad that had the yellow hair.
An' o' the night engag'd to let us gae,
Sae be the lad her for his ain wad hae,
An' tak her hame, syne join afore the priest.
A' this was promis'd, but by way of jest.
Sae on a night, as we did all agree,
She steals the key, an' sae she setts us free;
Aff a' together we three linking came.
But to get red, the lad contrives a sham,
To send her back for something he forgot;
Sae aff we scour'd, an' thought she'd slipt the knot.
But by your favour she is nae so blate;
She follows on, an' wi' my lassie met,
That at some gentle place had hab'ry ta'en—
I reed your honor does this better ken.
Sae, finding she for Flaviana speer'd,
They made their py, an' aff together steer'd;
An' just this very day came only here;
An' this, an't like your honor, maks the steer.
The lass—see, yonder, her wi' the brown hair,
Bydby they ca' her—bargains teugh an' sair
That Lindy there sud by his promise byde,
Gae face the priest, an' own her for his bride.
108

But he for this again is no so clear;
He thinks 'tis buying of the favour dear;
An' mair attour, his mind this monie a day
Gatelins to Nory there, my lassie, lay;
But for sick thoughts, as far as I can see,
'Twill be their wisdom now to let them be;
'Tis true indeed, when sickan things began,
An' a' our things in their auld channell ran,
It meith ha done; but as we're stated now,
Our littleanes may tak ither trade nor woo.
Indeed we've seen the warld leave wealthy fouks,
But they butt part that marry are but gouks.”
“I think sae too,” reply'd the cunning squire;
“Sick a' their days stand likely to be bair.”
“Your honor's hitten the nail upo' the head:
Fouk to sit down wi' something ay wad need.
An' now your honor's heard what maks the thrang.”
“Indeed,” quo he, “I think that Lindy's wrang,
As far as I can gather frae your tale;
But I sud be content to hear himsell,
An' Bydby baith. Gin they'll refer to me,
I's do my best to mak their odds agree.”
Sae they are ca'd. Says Bydby, “I'm content;
An' to your honor's vote gee my consent.
For sick I think's the justness of my case,
That nane to gee't against me can hae face.”
“Well, bony lass,” he says, “that e'en may be;
But yet what Lindy says o't we maun see.
Well, Lindy, man, tell gin the bargain was,
For letting o' you gae, to tak the lass.”
Quo he: “I's warrant sickan words hae been,
An't like your honor, her an' me between;
109

‘To lat you gae,’ gin she said, ‘what'll ye gimme?’
I've ablins said, ‘Indeed, I's tak you wi' me.’
Cud that be grounds so fast a grip to hadd,
Or gee a lass a tittle till a lad?
I wonder that she thinks na burning shame
On sick an errand to have come frae hame.
We that's poor fouks like at some pains to be
To court our lasses their consent to gee,
An' think them light that hastily consent,
Afore some time an' pains on them be spent;
But to seek us, afore their pulse we try,
We count them scrimp of shame an' modesty.”
“Well, Lindy, that sometimes the case may be,
An' sometimes no, as ye right now shall see;
Nae doubt we wiss, when we our liking set,
That we with just as good again be met.
Now, sud we blame a lass that's just as free
To look about her, an' to like, as we?
Or can she help sick likings up to grow,
Mair than we can the seed that anes we sow?
A lass may be as modest, that likes you,
As onie ane your fancie likes to woo;
An' a' the fault, an' sure it is the least,
Is letting out the coal that burns her breast.
Ye ken yoursell the pain of hadding in,
An' sud we i' the women ca't a sin?
But there is ae thing that we maun allow:
The lass likes best, that forc'd hersell to woo;
When they are, may be, whom we court of choice
Nae half sae honest, an' a deal mair nice.
Sae gee not sentence rashly, till ye ken.
Sick I've aft seen to eat their words be fain.
An' sick, I reed, will be the case wi' you;
110

Sae dinna blame sae sair poor Bydby now.”
“Well mat your honor thram for that!” quo she.
“As ye hae said, the case is just wi' me:
That lad I liked aboon onie ane,
An' likes him yet, for a' that's come an' gane;
An' boot to tell for fear I lost the hint,
Sae that I on him hae na stealt a dint.
Had I come after like a knotless threed,
He meith hae said that I was light indeed;
But here I put it till him gin that he
To tak me did na promise haleumlie,
Or we took gate; an' he kens best himsell,
To leave poor me, upon what shift he fell;
For butt my kenning he had left his coat,
An' tells to me how he had it forgot;
Then for the love to him I ever had,
He me again to run about it pray'd;
An' now what was't for him I wad na do?
An' how I'm guided I's be judge to you;
Sae wi' sick treatment I am left my lane,
An' monie a weary foot synsyne hae gane,
Born i' the yerd wi' that unchancy coat,
That he sae sleely said he had forgot.
An' now he thinks to put me aff wi' hire,
That gate to leave me stiking i' the mire.
But he's mista'en, to think to guide me sae,
For he's the hire alane that I will hae.”
“An' well I think ye won him,” said the squire;
“For ye hae plaid your part, an' something mair.
An' now I think that Lindy sud play his,
An' mak a mends unto you for the miss.
111

What say you, man? Think ye nae burning shame
To gee a lass sic 'casion you to blame?
Can ye expect to thram or forderds gang,
That has been guilty of so gryte a wrang?
Fause an' mensworn will be the name ye'll get,
Sae think in time while ye may mend it yet;
For gin ye let it to a hearing come,
Ye'll find ye've knet your web till a wrang thrum;
Force will compell you to comply at last,
Sae look about you or the hint be past.”
Quo Lindy, “Sir, this is a sareless feast,
To tak in earnest what ane speaks in jest;
But maistly, when we hae our life to lead.”
“Then or ye speak ye sud tak better heed,”
Replies the squire. “But now the hint is past;
Or it yeed by, ye sud hae gript it fast.
Do ye not think that ye wi' favour met,
Whan ye by Bydby was at freedom set?
An' mind that love, which now she claims as due,
Was what inclin'd her first to pity you,
To mend your mail, an' syn to set you free;
So as was her's, love sud your motive be.
For you she did mair than cud a' your kin,
Sae to draw back ye sud na now begin.
For weakness we the women use to shame,
But on oursels ye're like to turn the blame.
Do justice, man, an' bring na sick a stain
On what has been the lawful brag of men.
Mind what this lass has suffer'd now for you,
Whan ye did her sae treach'rously forhow;
How she is catcht for you frae wigg to wa',
112

An' nae forspeakers has her claim to ca';
Has run the risk of a' her friends down-look,
Whan for your sake this standing loup she took;
An' she hersel a strapping lass to boot—
I fairly how ye can hae face to do't—
A lass, what I can see, that well may sair
The best mail-payer's son that e'er buir hair.
Besides, I see she's mettle to the teeth,
An' looks na like to be put aff so eith.
Gin at her ye do sae repine an' grumble,
Her friends may come, an' raise you wi' a rumble;
By what I fear, their heavy hand ye ken,
Nor need ye green to waken them again.”
Then Bydby glibly to the squire reply'd,
“That is as true a tale as e'er ye said.
Gin they come here, as come they will, I'm sure,
For twenty pound I wad na stand his stour.
'Tis true, I winna say but I'll get blame,
That like a knotless threed sae came frae hame;
But when they see how I am guided here,
They winna byde to reckon lang, I fear.
For tho' I say't mysell, they're nae to keam
Against the hair, a-fiedlert, nor at hame.”
“An' for this lass, that was your jo before,
I reed she thinks ye hae ga'en o'er the score.
What ever ye may do afore her now,
She eithly sees that ye are nae to trow.
An' piece for you sick kindness yet she had,
Afore anither as wi' you to wed,
How cud she think that grace or thrift cud be
113

Wi' ane that she does sae missworn see?
Fouk ay had best begin wi' dealing fair,
Altho' they sud forgether ne'er so bare.”
For Nory's cause this sidlings cast he gae,
To brak her piece an' piece her Lindy frae;
An' gain'd his point, for she look't wond'rous dram,
An' thought his shifting Bydby but a sham.
This pleas'd the squire, an' made him think that he
At least frae Lindy wad keep Nory free;
An' for himsell to mak the plainer rode,
Betweesh them sae by casting of a clod.
Then Lindy says: “Sir, this is unko hard.
This gate we have nae chance against a kaird;
Gin she but say she likes ane, that's enough,
As lang's they'll ca', to gar us had the pleugh.”
“But,” says the squire, “gin ye wad tell a tale
That wad bear weight, be sure to tell it hail:
Attour that Bydby tauld she liked you,
She's mair to say, an' that's that ye did vow.
If with a kaird the case were likewise so,
An' she insist to hae you, wherefore no?
That backdoor is o'er strait to let you out,
Sae fesh nae mair for shifts to look about.
For frae what I can either see or hear
About your case, ye're Bydby's well-won gear.
Sae pay your debt, an' mak nae mair about it;
Hail claith looks ay far better than the clouted.”
A' this claw'd Bydby's back, an' made her fain,
As by her blythsome looks ane well meith ken.
The squire well saw't, an' unto Lindy says,
“Sick cheery looks a heart half dead might raise.”
114

Now Nory a' the while was playing prim,
As onie lamb as modest an' as mim;
An' never a look wi' Lindy did let fa',
But chaw'd her cood on what she heard an' saw.
Now Lindy's heart is haflins in a swidder,
The wild Sevitians put him in sick dridder;
An' he 'bout Nory now cud spy nae lyth,
An' Bydby only on him looked blyth.
Then said the squire, “I wiss we had a priest;
I'm thinking Lindy's a' this time in jest.
We sud dunt out the bottom o't ere lang,
Nor Lindy mair be chargeable wi' wrang.”
Quo Lindy: “Sir, sick knots are easy casten;
I'm yet but half resolv'd that gate to fasten.”
“Well, half is something, after comes the hail.
See, Ralph an' Colen, what ye can prevail.
Tak lad an' lass, an' speak amo' yoursells,
An' whan ye've done, come back again an' tell's.”
Sae aff they gangs, an' down together sit.
“Yon laird,” quo Colen, “has a deal o' witt,
The gentle fouks kens mickle mair nor we,
An' we sud tak the council that they gee.
Sae, Lindy, put an end to a' this strife,
An' tak kind Bydby here to be your wife.
'Tis hard to ken what blessings for't may light,
Tho' at the time they may be out o' sight:
'Tmay be a means to get our gueeds again;
At least I'm sure to slight her wad be nane.
By that we're certain to get sturt an' skaith,
But by the ither may get free o' baith.
This squire, may be, may with their masters deal;
Great fouks wi' ither easy can prevail.”
Quo Ralph: “Troth, Colen, I think ye are right;
It winna do awa' this lass to slight.
115

An' truly, Lindy, I maun this allow,
The lass is feer for feer, for hide an' hew.
An' as we're circumstanc'd, we had it fit,
As lang's the iron's het, ye sharply hit,
For fear ye loss the heat afore ye witt.
Gin anes they come, an' things nae at a close,
Better your feet, man, baith were in ae hose.
Were a' the syte to light on you your lane,
It were less skaith—'twould be but loss of ane;
But gin they anes brak loose, they winna spare
Sakeless or guilty, man, wife, cheel nor chare.”
“Come, man,” says Colen “what needs a' this din?
The lass, but mair, may sair your chief o' kin.
Begin the wark, an' gee'r a kindly kiss;
There's naething but a mends to heal a miss.”
“Indeed,” quo he, “that's what I well can spare;
I's gee her ane, tho' she sud get nae mair.”
At this poor Bydby's heart came till her mou;
She met my lad half-gates an' mair, I trow,
An' gar'd her lips on his gee sick a smack
That well outby ye wad ha heard the crack.
An' then wi' sick a blythsome blink she took it
That Lindy mair nor half was therewith hooked.
Upon the lass his heart gan sae to warm,
That ane wad thought the kiss had been a charm.
Gin he look'd blyth, the lassie looked mair,
For shame was past the shedding o' her hair.
Ye cud na tell't, except ye'd foun't your sell,
How at this kindness Bydby's heart did knell.
To him she says: “Well fell me, Lindy, now,
That e'er I got a tasting o' your mou!
Nae henny-beik that ever I did pree
116

Did taste so sweet or smervy unto me.
The day is now my ain; let's gae an' tell
Yon gentle squire that he's content himsell.
Well mat he be, as well mat ye be a',
That's helped my dear Lindy's heart to fa'!
For want, my Lindy, hae ye now nae fear;
Tho' ye be harry'd, I hae fouth o' gear;
An' mair attour, myself shall bear the blame
Gin a' your gueeds come not yet dancing hame.”
Thus she sae wisely did the gully guide
That Lindy fand he had sma' room to slide.
In this good mood they a' came in a breast,
An' Bydby's looking's gin she'd found a nest.
The squire cud soon the alteration spy,
When they came a' so chearfully in by,
An' says, “I see ye're a' accorded now.
Ye winna trow what good advice 'll do.”
An' tho' poor Lindy look't but half an' half,
Yet Bydby answer'd wi' a blythsome gauff:
“Well fell me now! the day is a' my ain;
There is nae pleasure gotten here but pain.”
Then says the squire: “Good friends, now had you mery.
We's hae a priest to end the dibberderry.
Kiss on an' daut, an' use your freedom now;
Nane now dare say 'tis ill done that ye do.
Wi' Colen I maun hae a quiet crack,
An' ye shall see a sport when I come back.”
Then taks his Nory by the milk-white hand,
That changing colours a' the time did stand;
Then bade he Colen bring his wife alang,
An' down they sat a wee bit frae the thrang.
117

CANTO III.

When they were set, he unto Colen says:
“I've yet not tauld my errand to thir braes.
Yon threap, I think, is feckly at a close,
But I have something better to propose:
Poor Nory here is like to want her jo,
An' teeth an' nail I've wrought it sud be so.
That she sud want, I think, great pity were,
An' she sae ripe, sae ruddy, plump an' fair.”
“That she has miss'd this heat I am not wae,”
Says Colen: “she may want for year an' day.
'Twill tak this seven year, I fear, an' mae,
Scrap where we like, ere she be fit to gae.”
Then says the squire: “Gin that be a' your fear,
She sanna want a man for want of gear.
A thousand pound a year, well burden-free,
I mak her sure o', gin she'll gang wi' me.”
An' wi' the word a kindly smak her gae,
Till Nory blusht, an' wist na what to say.
“Awa',” says Colen, “that'll never do,
A cuintray littleane for the like o' you!
'Tis nae feer for feer, sae poor fouk dinna joak.
Ye'll get your eekfull, an' she'll get her luck.”
“Colen, gin I for joaking had been set,
I cud ha pleas'd mysell anither gate,
And never speer'd your leave, when her I fand,
In the wide forrest full at my command.
But let her tell gin onie wrang I gae.”
“Indeed,” quo Nory, “that I dare na say.”
118

“Sae, Colen, I'm in earnest; piece that I
Cud nolens volens carry aff my prey
I fand so free, yet it's my choice to speer
Yours and your wife's good will 'bout Nory here.”
“A well, an't like your honor,” Colen says,
“Gin that's the gate, we need na mak gryte fraze.
The credit's ours, an' we may bless the day
That ever keest her i' your honor's way.
But ye'll hae o' her but a silly prize,
An' soon be like to her an' hers despise:
A witless littleane, bred to herd the ews,
Or, whan they're fu', to pu' a birn o' cows:
That or sick like's the maist that she can do,
An' sae I reed she'll no be fit for you.
But come o' her what likes, I'm twice content
That Lindy's to his bargain geen consent.
'Twill ablins help to dem the tide of ire
That burns 'mong the Sevitians like a fire.
For up they'll be upon a wond'rous steer,
An' gueed's the hap we hae your honor here;
Gin ye'll but byde amon's a day or twa,
To help's a hitch afore ye gang awa',
'Twill calm them sair sick part-takers to see
Among so poor an' feckless fouk as we.”
“A' that I grant,” reply'd the wylie squire,
“An' I's be glad what help I can to share.
Anes mak me sure my Nory is my ain,
An' ye nor I sall hae nae further pain.”
“Out, out,” quo he, “an' ye be baith content
To gang together, ye's hae my consent.”
“An' well I wat,” quo Jean, “an' ye's get mine,
An' benysons my poor consent to line.
An' tho' I say't, she's just as gueed an aught,
119

As wysse an' fu' of seelfu'ness an' saught,
As onie she that ever yeed on bean,
Gentle or semple, except I now will nane.
'Tis true indeed she's nae a maik for you,
Piece she be well enough for hide an' hue;
But maks na, 'tis a' ane, syn ye're content,
I hope ye's never o' your choice repent.
Altho' her father there, fool sensless man,
Says that the lassie has na skill nor can,
He kens na better, an' is far mista'en:
But nae lang syne she made a keek her lane,
An' never got a lesson but bare ane.
She'll shape to onie cast your honor likes;
O'erwedded fouks are ready to loup dikes.”
“A well, goodwife, that's true, I'm o' your mind.
I wad hae gotten anew of my ain kind,
An' courting me as hard as they cud do,
Tho' Lindy scares at lasses, when they woo.
But on my Nory here my fancy's sett;
She's get the hap that they expect to get.
Now, Nory, tell me, Nory, will ye hae
A swinging laird, an' let the shepherds gae?
Ye's be as happy as the day is lang,
An' there about us too shall be a sang,
That shall be heard as far as ‘Bony Jean’,
That anes was a' the burden o' the glen.”
“Syn they're content to fum I do belang,”
She blushing said, “that I wi' you sud gang,
To say you nay I think I wad be wrang.
For gryt's the kindness ye did kyth on me,
When me ye did in the wild forrest see;
120

An' kind the lady was of Bony-ha',
Frae fum I came o'er recklessly awa'.
But fainness to be hame, that burnt my breast,
Made me to tak the ettle when it keest.
But yet I fear I'll stand you little stead,
Either to wash your sark, or mak your bed,
Or sickan warks as to a woman lie;
An' yours, I fear, wad need a cast forby.”
“Syn ye're content, it's just enough to me.
Were we anes hame, your wark sall easie be,”
The squire reply'd, an' twin'd his willing arms
About her waist, an' kist her lovely charms.
“Of your consent,” says he, “I'm mair nor fain,
An' vowky that I can ca' you my ain.
Your bony cheeks that first I sleeping saw,
Just as ye lay, quite aff my feet me sta'.
Frae then till now I brook'd na peace nor rest,
Sae wrought your sweet remembrance in my breast.
Hae ye nae dread 'bout washing o' my sark,
Or making of my bed, or sick-like wark;
At hame afore you ye'll find fouks anew
Ready to keep that burden aff o' you.
To eat your meat, an' that's be o' the best,
An' wear your claiths frae head to foot well drest;
Thro' gardens fine to walk, an' apples pu',
Or henny pears to melt into your mou;
Or on the camawine to lay you down,
Wi' roses red an' white a' busked round,
Shall be the height o' what ye'll hae to do,
An' nane to quarrel or find faut wi' you.
121

My cousin Betty, whom ye ken an' saw,
An' left fu' dowie down at Bony-ha',
For coming aff, shall your companion be,
An' like twa sisters ye will live an' gree.
An' farther, lest my Nory sud think lang,
Colen an' Jean wi' us maun also gang.
Ye's hae nae ought to do but tell your beads;
Your meat an' claith sall be bound to your heads.”
“Indeed,” quo Colen, “syn my litlean's gaing,
An' on her feet so happly has fa'en,
I'm e'en content it be as ye wad hae't;
Your honor winna miss our bit an' baid.”
“Well, honest Colen, there's my hand to yours.
There's be nae word at hame of yours an' ours;
At hake an' manger Jean an' ye sall live,
Of what ye like wi' power to tak an' give.
But that we loss nae time, we'll call the priest,
An' see what can be gotten for a feast.
For I hae drink a fouth, an' o' the best,
As onie living needs to hae or taste.”
Quo Colen: “I hae yet upo' the town
A new-bull'd quoy, gaing three, a berry-brown,
A tyddie beast, an' glettering like a slae,
That by gueed hap escaped frae the fae.
Well will I think it wair'd at sick a tide,
Now when my dather is your honor's bride,
She's get the mell, an' that sall be right now;
As well's a quoy altho' she were a cow.”
122

“Fair fa' you, Colen! ye speak like yoursell.
She's be a well-paid quoy, an' I had heal,”
Says the young squire. “Meantime we'll tak a glass,
An' drink a health to my sweet shepherdess,
Until the priest be come to gee's the grace;
An' syne we's birle it bauld wi' cheerfu' face.
Call in by Lindy an' his Bydby here,
That they may get a share of our good cheer.
But hear ye, first my Nory maun be drest,
An' that, I 'sure you, maun be o' the best.”
Says Colen: “Hearie, haste ye an' rin o'er;
Your bridal sark is yet unto the fore;
It was na on, I wat, this seven year,
An' well I wat it anes was clean an' clear.
Put that upon her, an' what mair ye hae.
Ye canna mak her bra enough the day.”
Quo Jean: “I shall do that intil a stound;
An' hail an' feer beside's my brydal gown;
A' sall gang on, the lassie'll tak it now;
Gueed stuff it is, an' looks as gin 'twere new.
Attour I hae a ribbon two ell lang,
As bread's my loof, an' nae a thrum o't wrang;
Gin it hae monie marrows I'm beguil'd;
'Twas never out o' fauld syn she was swyl'd.
A' this I hae, an' she sall get it a';
An' gin 'twere on, she'll e'en be brydal bra'.”
The squire reply'd: “Ye've been a noble guide,
But these are out o' fesson for my bride.
They'll fit you best, put ye them on yoursell;
Ye well deserve for thrift to bear the bell.
My Nory shanna want.” Then gae a cry
123

Upon twa waiting maids to come in by;
Then says to them: “Ye'll tak this angel sweet,
An' dress wi' claithing for your mistris meet,
My love, my bride; an' spare no pains nor care,
For chap an' choice of suits ye hae them there;
An' when ye do't, mind ye your mistress dress,
Nor let your havins than to sick be less.”
The maids obey, an' Nory's taken in,
An' of her cuintray dress stript to the skin;
Syne with sweet washes wrought from tap to tae—
The halesome smell spread out thro' a' the brae—
Then with clean servits dry'd her up an' down,
An' then to dress her made them quickly bown.
But o' the bony things that they had there,
Of silks an' camricks, costly, fine an' rare,
I canna name the half; but o' them they
Busk'd up a bony Nory there that day;
So white an' clean, that when she came again
Her mither Jean did haflins her misken.
Now by the time that Nory comes in by,
Like Venus from a scamper thro' the sky,
Fleeing wi' silks, an' ruddy like the morn
That casts a glow upo' the yellow corn,
Lindy an' Bydby frae their quiet crack,
Right well content an' blythsome like came back.
The squire observes them, an' says, “Come awa'!
I'm glad ye look sae free, an' butt a' ga'.
Your scruples, Lindy, by your face I find,
Are at a close, an' answer'd to your mind.”
Quo Lindy: “Sir, indeed, I canna say
But I an' Bydby may together gae;
124

But there is ae thing I'd hae dunted out,
An' I nae mair sall say this threap about;
An' that's that Nory own afore you a'
That on my side the bargain didna fa';
For, for my coat, I wad na wiss 'twere said
That I of jamphing lasses made a trade.”
“Well, Lindy, I believe,” reply'd the squire,
“Nory'll be frank to do you justice there;
For what between you twa has ever been,
(As I believe ye've been baith frank an' keen)
Nane to the ither will cast up, I ween.
But quite to mak you easy, try hersell
Afore this rout, and let her freely tell.”
“If anes I saw her, I sud frankly speer;
By what I see, I think she is na here.”
Her change o' dress sae pat her out o' ken,
That he misken'd her now wi' open eyn.
Then Nory smiles, an' says: “I's no come o'er
'Tweesh you an' me what happen'd has before.
That's past an' gane, an' things, ye see, have ta'en
Anither cast, an' maun be latten alane.
But a' before here standing, I avow
That naething wrang I hae to lay to you.
An' as a taeken that I hae nae grudge,
Ye's ay be welcome where I byde to lodge,
An' fare as I do; an' what I can spare,
I's ever mak you welcome to a share.”
“Now, Lindy,” says the squire, “you're easie now;
My Nory says naething but gueed of you;
An' what she here has shapen, I shall sew:
125

Bring ilka year, as lang's ye dow an' live,
A lamb, an' to your auld acquaintance give,
An' i' your loof ye's get as aft down tauld
The worth of a' that suck into your fauld.”
An' now the priest to join the pairs is come,
But first is welcom'd wi' a doze of rum;
An' now the hearts that chance together cast,
By wedlock's bands are linked hard an' fast.
An' then the dishes o' the demas green
Are ranked down wi' proper space between;
While honest Jean brang forward in a rap
Green horn cutties rattling in her lap,
An' frae them wyl'd the sleeketest was there,
An' thumb'd it round, an' gae't unto the squire;
Then round the ring she dealt them ane by ane,
Clean in her pearlin keek an' gown alane.
The priest said grace, an' a' the thrang fell too,
An' ca'd their cutties at the smervy bree;
Then on the beef of the new-slaughter'd quoy
Baith thumbs an' knives an' teeth they did employ;
Sometimes the beer, sometimes the wine yeed round,
For what the squire desir'd was snaply done,
While all the knows wi' musick sweetly rang,
An' honest Colen knack'd his thumbs an' sang.
When dinner's o'er, the dancing neist began,
An' throw an' throw they lap, they flang, they ran;
The cuintray dances an' the cuintray reels
126

Wi' strecked arms yeed round, an' nimble heels.
The squire ordain'd nae rander to be kept,
An' roos'd him always best that heighest leapt;
Lest Nory, seeing dancing by a rule,
Shou'd blush, as never having been at school.
While thus the gamesome mirth goes round,
Colen's behading o' the green,
An' mair nor pleas'd, turns in a stound,
An' couthily says unto Jean:
“What think ye, 'oman, o' this day?
May we no think our pains well wair'd,
An' that it is right blythsome play,
When our young Nory's gotten a laird?”
Jean says, “I thought ay good o' her wad come,
For she was with the foremest up, an' some.”
Says Colen then: “Come, heary, gee's a sang,
An' let's be hearty wi' the blythsome thrang.”
“Awa'!” she says, “fool man, ye're growing fu'.
Wha ever's daft the day, it setts na you.”
As they're at this, the squire came dancing by,
An' speers what cracks their tongues did occupy.
Quo Colen: “Sir, an't like your honor, we
'Bout Nory's happy luck were cracking free;
An' I was bidding Jean e'en gee's a sang,
That we amo' the lave might mix our mang;
But she but jamphs me, telling me I'm fu'.
An' gin't be sae, I's now be judge to you.”
“I join you, Colen,” then the bridegroom says;
“Come, honest Jean, gee's Flaviana's Braes.”
127

Quo Jean, “My steven, sir, is blunted sair,
An' singing frae me frighted aff wi' care;
But gin ye'll tak it as I now can gee't,
Ye're welcome till't, an' my sweet blessing wi't.”

Jean sings “The Braes of Flaviana” to the tune of “The Lass of Pattie's Mill.”

[1]

“Of all the lads that be
On Flaviana's braes,
An' Colen bears the gree,
An' that a thousand ways:
Best on the pipe he plays,
Is merry, blyth an' gay;
An' ‘Jeany fair,’ he says,
‘Has stow'n my heart away.

2

Had I ten thousand pounds,
I'd all to Jeany gee;
I'd thole a thousand wounds
To keep my Jeany free;
For Jeany is to me
Of all the maidens fair
My jo, and ay shall be;
With her I'll only pair.

3

Of roses I will weave
For her a flow'ry crown;
All other cares I'll leave,
An' busk her haffets round;
I'll buy her a new gown,
Wi' strips of red an' blew,
An' never mair look brown,
For Jeany'll ay be new.’
128

4

My Jeany made reply:
‘Syn ye hae chosen me,
Then all my wits I'll try
A loving wife to be
If I my Colen see,
I'll lang for naething mair;
Wi' him I do agree
In weal an' wae to share.’
Now, sir ye hae our Flaviana's Braes;
An' well, ye see, our gossip did me praise;
But we're forfairn, an' right sair alter'd now;
Sick youngsome sangs are sareless frae my mou.”
“Hale be your heart!” the merry squire replies;
“Nae to the worse is alter'd yet the guise.
An' hale too, Colen, be your heart! butt you,
This merry sang we a' had wanted now.”
Then Colen said: “The carline made it nice,
But well I kend she cud it tightly dyce;
Afttimes, unbidden, she's lilted it to me,
An' o'er the fire has blinked i' my eye.”
To fill a glass the cheerfu' squire commands,
An' wi' the honest seelfu' pair shakes hands,
An' drank their healths, an' gar'd it gae about;
An' O! the beer was pithy, brown an' stout.
As thus the dancing an' the mirth gaes on,
Ane looks about an' says, “See, sirs! What's yon?
A knott of men advancing at full dreel,
An' O! the foremost looks a fearsome cheel.”
A' look about, an' Lindy says: “Ho, ho!
Yon's the Sevitians, what shall we do now?
An' yon's black Tom, that's gaing alane before.
There'll be amon's right now a dowie hour.”
129

Then Colen says: “Alas! the tale's o'er true:
Our mirth will a' be turn'd to mourning now;
'Tis now come till our hand what Bydby tauld:
We'll naething be afore yon bangsters bauld.”
The squire observes their fright; says, “Never fear!
We's meet them wi' as sharp an' trusty gear.
Come, friends, wi' courage let us meet the crew,
An' that there's men in Flaviana shew.
Meanwhile, till we prepare—” he turns him till
The stout an' stalvart laird of Aikenhill;
Says: “Forward gae in a' your armour sheen,
An' ask yon highland kettrin what they mean;
Charge them to halt, nor move on foot-bred more,
Or they shall at their peril cross the score.”
The knight obeys, wi' glancing sword in hand,
Wi' stately steps, an' brows shap'd to command;
His man behind him buir his massy targe,
Well boss'd wi' steel, an' out o' measure large.
When he was full within their hearing got,
Wi' daring meen, frae aff a rising mot,
He cry'd to stop, an' crying stampt the ground,
Until the hillock gae a trembling sound.
The men, tho' bauld, yet at the fearsome sight
An' manly call were some put in a fright,
An' stopt a wee, syne up mair saftly came;
The knight enquir'd what was their country's name.
“Sevitia,” they reply'd. “What seek ye here,”
He says, “clad in sick weed an' warlike gear?”
“Our sister,” they reply'd, “is stown away,
130

An' by the Flavianians made a prey;
Her at all hazards we intend to claim,
An' on the havers of her fix the blame.”
An' now the squire is ready to advance,
An' in his hand takes up a glitt'ring lance,
An' bids the stoutest of the trusty throng
Gird on their brands, an' briskly come along.
Nory at this is suddenly agast,
An' to her squire with both her hands grips fast,
Crying, “Ye shanna, nay, ye maunna gang!
Yon kettrin, sure, will work you deadly wrang.
For onie thing wi' you I'll never part,
For fear's already like to break my heart.”
“Fear na, my Nory, fear na,” said the squire;
“At sight of us yon kettrin will retire.”
“Retire or no,” says Nory, “if you'll go,
But onie further speaking, I'll do so.”
“Then come along,” the smiling squire reply'd;
“We'll look the better that we hae our bride.
Ye want not arrows that can wound an' kill;
Ye know ye shot me, sleeping i' the hill;
Your glancing eyn will mak their heads to reel,
An' melt their arrows, tho' of beaten steel.”
Sae hand in hand the squire an' she set out,
Attended by a brave an' gallant rout.
The squire comes up, an' says to Aiken-hill,
“Have these intruders bauld obey'd your will?”
131

“So far,” he says, “that they have stopt their course;
But say from here springs o' their rage the source.”
The squire steps forward, and enquires the cause
They thus sae bauldly brak the standing laws,
By breaking in upo' their neighbours' bounds,
Like baited bears, or like blood-thristy hounds.
Did they imagine Flaviana's braes
Had no protectors frae their bloody faes?
He'd let them see they widely were mista'en,
An' sud be met with as hard match again;
Tho' they of late unquarrell'd wan awa',
When they these honest people's gueeds did ca',
That they sud find the guise was alter'd now,
An' reason have this reckless race to rue.
Then the Sevitians made this bauld reply:
“We never thought it wrang to ca' a prey.
Our auld forbears practis'd it a' their days,
An' ne'er the worse for that did sett their claise;
But we ne'er heard that e'er they steal'd a cow,
Sick nesty tricks they wad hae scorn'd to do;
But tooming faulds, or ca'ing of a glen,
Was ever deem'd the deed of protty men;
So we for that need not cast down our brow,
But is a thing that we may well avow.”
The squire consider'd 'twas na best to fight
Wi' men 'bout things that they accounted right,
But trys wi' reason to reduce their wills,
An' show the wrang of what they judg'd not ills;
An' thus began: “Your auld forbears, ye say,
Taught you to toom a fauld, an' drive a prey;
They thought it was a doughty deed, and ye
To do the like right well intitl'd be;
But tell me this, how would you like the case
If on yoursells shou'd others turn the chase?”
132

Say they, “We know no reason but they might;
The strongest side has ay the strongest right;
If we our side unable are to guard,
Let them the booty have for their reward.”
The squire reply'd, “My lads, ye judge amiss,
For of the weak the law protector is.”
“It may be,” said the kettrin, “but if true,
We have like reason to complain of you:
Ye've stollen a lass, an' frae us forc'd awa',
An' ere we want her, we shall pluck a craw.”
“O, then,” reply'd the squire, “is that the case?
Come forward, and ye soon shall have redress.
The lass is safe an' sound, an' marry'd leal,
An' free to tell that her we did na steal;
Stark love and kindness made her to come here,
When we to have her were not quite so clear;
But we've inclin'd the lad that wan her heart
To gee himsell to cure her langing smart.”
“If that's the case,” say they, “our mind's at rest;
We wiss they o't may hae a merry feast.”
“A merry feast,” he says, “they hae, an' ye
Come forward, an' the truth thereof sall see.”
An' now the fead is softn'd, an' alang
They march, an' mix themselves amo' the thrang;
The face o' things is alter'd in a snap,
An' as they came they sang, they danc'd, they lap.
Colen an' Lindy now, that fear'd the worst,
This change observing, come amo' the first,
Wi' Bydby hadding Lindy by the hand,
To welcome the Sevitians to their land;
An' merry was their meeting o' the green,
An' O the shaking hands that there was seen!
All forward now in merry mood they went,
An' a' the day in mirth and ranting spent.
Well were they pleas'd wi' Lindy, when they saw
Wi' him the yoke how Bydby loo'd to draw.
When they had eat an' drunk unto the full,
133

Then says the squire: “My lads, it is my will,
As by this marriage ye are linked here,
That ye restore this honest people's gear,
An' live like friends, and each stand by the other,
As close as ye wad do to any brother;
Give o'er your herships, and improve your lands,
Nor more a-strolling go with reefing bands.
So shall ye hence be held in good esteem,
An' your lost reputation much redeem.”
Then the Sevitians gae this saft reply:
“Your just request we canna well deny.
Syn Lindy has wi' Bydby chapped hands,
They's hae their gear again at your command.
Chap out as monie yonkers frae your glen
As ilka horn an' hoove o' yours may ken,
An' we sall them a redy taeken gee
That sall frae us let a' their gueeds gae free.”
Accordingly the lads are weal'd an' sent,
Their taeken shown, which butt a host was kent;
An' a' the beasts in course of time came hame,
An' ilka cow was welcom'd by her dame.
Then a' the afternoon they danc'd an' drank,
An' were wi' ither hearty, free an' frank.
At night the wedded pairs, on beds of hay,
Confirm'd the publick consent o' the day.
Now when the morn was gilt with Phoebus' beams,
An' reek in streaming tow'rs frae lumb-heads leams,
The squire an' all his sightly friends are seen
In good array upo' the dewy green;
An' straight wi' the Sevitians sealed a band,
In aftertimes unchangeably to stand,
To witt: That they with Flaviana's braes
Shou'd ever mair hae common friends an' faes.
Attour, the squire to Lindy does bequeath
To brook all Colen's gear till his last breath;
134

An' to his bairns after him, as now
Colen with these wou'd hae nae mair to do,
As he an' Jean wi' him were now to gang,
For a' their life-time, be it ne'er so lang.
To the Sevitians here we bid adieu,
An' leave them feasting with their allies new.
An' now the squire his hameward course intends,
An' aff a message to auld mammy sends;
Anither forward unto Bony-ha',
To tell that there things be red up an' bra'.
Upon a milk-white steed is Nory set,
By livery men attended in great state;
Sae girt she was in strong and gallant graith,
As she cud neither fa' nor meet wi' skaith;
An' then sae bra' that she hersell misknew,
Sae i' the wind her silks an' scarlets flew.
Ane led her reins, wi' siller knaps fu' clear;
On ilka side twa yeed by her right near;
The squire himsell, upon a silver gray,
Rade close afore her to direct the way;
Behind her, and on ilka side, his friends
On stately steeds most carefully attends.
Colen was mounted in a gentle suit,
Wi' hatt an' wig an' riding gear compleat;
An' Jean wi' orange silk is a' clad o'er,
Wi' mantle blue, an' siller clasps afore;
An' baith were mounted on a sturdy brown,
An' footmen order'd them to wait upon.
Then on they scour, an' by the day was hy
They reach'd the glens where mammy kept the ky;
An' on the green they light before the sheal,
An' mammy comes, an' welcomes them “All hail!”
“Well, lucky,” says he, “hae you try'd your hand
135

Upo' your milk as I gae you command?”
“An't like your honor,” quo she, “that I hae;
An' in a glent, my cheeld, ye's find it sae.
Gang in, an' seat you o' the sunks a' round,
An' ye's be sair'd wi' plenty in a stound.”
Sae down they sat, an' by himsell the squire
To set his Nory took a special care.
An' fan they're set, auld lucky eyes them a',
An' “Sick a rout,” says, “here I never saw.
Well mat ye a' be, an' well gae ye hame!
But I afore you a' maun tell a dream
I had last night, when I lay here my lane,
That yet alive I had seen bony Jean.”
Then says the squire: “Pray, lucky, wha was she,
Wi' whom in sleep ye bight sae busie be?”
“A friend o' yours,” she says, “but yet I fear
That ye o' her cud scarcely ever hear;
Ere ye was born her fate was past an' gane,
An' she almaist forgot by ilka ane.
An' that sweet face by you I'd say were she,
Were't no she now cud not sae young like be.
An' yet 'tis sair born o' me that she may,
Frae what I dream'd, in midlert be the day.”
“Tell on your tale,” reply'd the squire, “for I
To hear it out am in perplexity.”
Then said she: “Frae this back near thirty year,
Which is as yesterday to me as clear,
Frae your ain uncle's gate was nipt awa'
That bony bairn, 'twas thought by Junky Fa,
That famous gypsee, that steal'd monie ane;
An' o' her since was notice never nane.
I at that time her wordy father sair'd,
An' monie a tear the matter cost the laird;
Great search for her was made, baith far an' near,
136

But tint nor tryal never cud appear.”
To this auld Colen glegly gan to hark,
Wha with his Jean sat butwards i' the mark,
An' says “Goodwife, I reed your tale is true,
An' I ne'er kent my wife's extract till now;
'Tis she had sae been stown by Junky Fa,
An' I can tell you how she wan awa';
My father an' some neipers spy'd the rout
Of gypsies strolling, as they're early out;
They dreaded sair they meith ca' aff some prey,
An' gae them chase, about the brak of day;
The bony bairn they i' the hurry tint;
Our fouks came up, an' fand her in a glent;
'Bout six or seven she looked then to be;
Her face was smear'd wi' some din-colour'd gree.
They fuish her hame, an' an auld man ca'd Dick,
A wealthy herd that kent the gypsies' trick
Of stealing bairns an' smearing o' their skin,
That had na bairns himsell, first took her in;
Weesh aff the gree, an' then her bony face
Tauld she boot be come of some gentle race;
An' Dick thought now that he had fand a fidle,
Wha never brak his shins upo' the cradle.
Syne meat he gae, the best he cud command,
An' says, “Ye hae your deddie by the hand.
How ca' they you, my bairn, gin ye but ken?”
She answer maks, an' says, “They ca' me Jean.”
Some ither questions mair he speer'd, but she
Cud o' hersell nae proper cuttance gee;
He only frae some hints cud eathly learn
That butt a' doubt she was some gentle bairn.
Gin he was fain, far fainer was his wife;
An' 'tweesh them she liv'd a contented life;
137

A little time made her her chance forget,
Quite pleas'd in being dedd an' minnie's pet.
Just as their ain she's fashen up, an' ta'en
For Dick's ae dather now by ilka ane;
An' blyth he was that she e'en thought it sae,
An' a' his wealth at last unto her gae.
Whan she an' I forgether'd, I mysell
Kend nought of a' this strange, but cuthie tale.
Dick an' my father's now baith at their rest;
Dick's wife alane the verity kent best,
An' tauld it me, an' then I speer'd at Jean;
She said about it she did little ken;
Something of stairs an' beds ran in her mind,
Than these at hame of a quite other kind,
Yet a' but like a dream, an' when at last
She's half perswaded of her antercast,
She said, ‘What signifies't? We'll never ken
Oursells the richer either butt or ben;
Upon our side we need na ly, an' lippen
To what to us may frae our gentrie happen.’
An' sae thought I, but yet was something vain
That sick an aught I now cud ca' my ain;
An' vain may I be now, when a' that's past,
By unko twines has fa'en sae well at last.”
Then says to Jean, “Come out afore the gawd,
An' lat fouk see gin ye be what ye're ca'd.”
“I sall,” she says, an' comes ben to the light.
Auld mammy looks, an' says, “I'm right, I'm right!
My dream is read, an' this is bony Jean,
Her lady mither o'er an' o'er again
In face an' feature, an' muckle about her eild,
When she to ruthless dead was forc'd to yield.
Bad was your luck, we thought, when ye was stollen,
But it wad look ye o' your feet had fallen,
When your goodman himsell, an' also ye
138

Do look sae like the thing that ye sud be.”
Then Jean reply'd: “I sud be right content
For the kind cavel that to me was lent;
But it's nae lang since I hae been sae bra';
What I hae maistly had, hail claise was a';
Gueed luck, an' mair na gueed, I now may ca't,
An' thankfu' sud I be, gin I cud shaw't.”
“Ye're welcome, mother,—sae I call you now.
Well wair'd I think a' that I geen to you,
An' wad hae thought it due, now when I ken,”
Replies the squire, “that ye are just my ain.”
Then he to mammy says: “Do ye na mind
That to some travelling lasses ye was kind?
That ane o' them ye roos'd sae won'drous sair,
An' sonnets made upon her face so fair?
Think ye that ye that bony face wad ken,
In case that ye sud chance to see't again?”
“Her looks,” quo she, “sae gar'd my heart-strings beat,
I reed 'twas they that me a-dreaming set.
An' I almaist wad swear that same were she
That blinks beside you wi' her bony eye,
'Cept that she's bra'er far; but what ken I,
But she has chang'd her claise syn she yeed by?”
“Ye're right, goodwife,” says Nory, “chang'd indeed,
Syn I yeed by, is baith my mind an' weed.
I'm i' your debt for your gueed cruds and ream,
An' ere lang days I hope to pay you hame.
Your dream indeed has made me mair nor fain,
Now what I am when I begin to ken.”
“My benisons upo' your bony face!”
Auld lucky says; “I wiss you muckle grace.
That ye are bony Jean's I'm certain now,
An' look as spitted just out at her mou.”
Then says the squire to lucky: “Do ye mind
That what to do you wish't I were inclin'd?
139

That was to take a wife ere I came hame.
I've done your will, an' ta'en this charming dame,
This bony lassie that now sits by me,
An' my ain flesh an' blood now proves to be.
Lang may you dream, for I am twice content,
That ane yet lives the verity that kent,
An' has so seasonably letten me ken,
That I hae match'd, an' that amo' my ain.
But this I'll say, tho' she had been nae mair
But just my ain sweet country lassie there,
I never wad my happy choice repent,
Tho', as she's what she is, I'm as content.
If she her luck may prize, I also may,
I hope, prize mine unto my dying day.”
Thus has this strange adventure ended right,
An' every scene in due time come to light:
Jean from her lot obscure is now retriv'd,
An' honor due on Nory is deriv'd;
Her comely face, that look'd aboon her lot,
A chance becoming her descent has got.
All home they mount, an' led a blythsome life,
Happy as yet were ever man an' wife,
A blooming offspring frae this marriage sprang,
That honour'd virtue, an' discourag'd wrang.

CONCLUSION.

Now Reader, lest thou thinkst the time ill spent,
Thou on the reading of this tale hast lent,
Or should'st upon review be apt to say
I'd thrown my paper, pains and time away;
Be pleas'd to see, couch'd in this harmless tale,
Some useful lessons try'd in reason's scale:
As love's a nat'ral passion of the mind,
To which all ranks are more or less inclin'd,
140

Care has been taken, while we paint it here,
That nothing base nor vicious should appear,
But what is chaste and virtuous all the while,
And only meets thee with a cheery smile.
See also the plain past'ral life describ'd,
Before it had oppressive views imbib'd,
And judge how sweet and harmless were the days
When men were acted by such springs as these.
See also the reverse of this fair plan,
After oppressive measures first began;
And from the havoc that this practice brought,
Be taught to hate it ev'n in very thought.
If any arts thou find'st are here practis'd,
To gain some ends unlawfully devis'd,
Be not surpris'd, but turn thy views within,
And let him first throw stones that wants the sin.
'Tis not for practice, tho' too much the way,
That it's allow'd a place in our essay,
But rather to evince, when we pretend
To gain by slight, that we shall lose our end.
Nought, in a word, is here at all design'd
To misconduct, or to debauch the mind;
But to amuse it when too earnest bent,
Or recreate a spirit over spent;
To help to pass a lonesome winter's night,
But saving room for graver subjects right.
No line is for the critic here design'd,
To find him work or please his captious mind;
For me he all his pains and time shall waste,
As careless in the least to please his taste.
Enough my brains I have already beat,
And judge it time to sound my loud retreat.
THE END.
141

SONGS.

THE ROCK AND THE WEE PICKLE TOW.

There was an auld wife an' a wee pickle tow,
An' she wad gae try the spinning o't;
She louted her down, an' her rock took a low,
An' that was a bad beginning o't.
She sat an' she grat, an' she flet an' she flang,
An' she threw an' she blew, an' she wrigl'd an' wrang,
An' she choaked an' boaked, an' cry'd like to mang,
“Alas for the dreary spinning o't!
I've wanted a sark for these eight years an' ten,
An' this was to be the beginning o't;
But I vow I shall want it for as lang again,
Or ever I try the spinning o't;
For never since ever they ca'd me as they ca' me,
Did sick a mishap an' misanter befa' me;
But ye shall hae leave baith to hang me an' draw me,
The neist time I try the spinning o't.
I hae keeped my house for these threescore o' years,
An' ay I kept free o' the spinning o't;
But how I was sarked foul fa' them that speers!
For it minds me upo' the beginning o't.
142

But our women are now-a-days grown sae bra',
That ilk ane maun hae a sark, an' some hae twa,
The warlds were better when ne'er ane awa'
Had a rag but ane at the beginning o't.
Foul fa' her that ever advis'd me to spin,
That had been so lang a-beginning o't!
I might well have ended as I did begin,
Nor have got sick a skair with the spinning o't.
But they'll say, she's a wyse wife that kens her ain weerd;
I thought on a day it should never be speer'd
‘How loot ye the low take your rock by the beard,
When ye yeed to try the spinning o't?’
The spinning, the spinning, it gars my heart sob,
When I think upo' the beginning o't;
I thought ere I died to have anes made a wob,
But still I had weers o' the spinning o't.
But had I nine dathers, as I hae but three,
The safest and soundest advice I cud gee
Is that they frae spinning wad keep their hands free,
For fear of a bad beginning o't.
Yet in spite of my counsel if they will needs run
The drearysome risk of the spinning o't,
Let them seek out a lythe in the heat of the sun,
And there venture o' the beginning o't.
But to do as I did, alas, and awow!
To busk up a rock at the cheek of the low,
Says that I had but little wit in my pow,
And as little ado with the spinning o't.
But yet after a', there is ae thing that grieves
My heart to think o' the beginning o't:
143

Had I won the length but of ae pair o' sleeves,
Then there had been word o' the spinning o't;
This I wad ha washen an' bleech'd like the snaw,
And o' my twa gardies like moggans wad draw,
An' then fouk wad say that auld Girzy was bra',
An' a' was upon her ain spinning o't.
But gin I wad shog about till a new spring,
I should yet hae a bout of the spinning o't;
A mutchkin of linseed I'd i' the yerd fling,
For a' the wanchansie beginning o't.
I'll gar my ain Tammie gae down to the how,
An' cut me a rock of a widdershines grow
Of good rantry-tree, for to carrie my tow,
An' a spindle of the same for the twining o't.
For now when I mind me, I met Maggy Grim,
This morning just at the beginning o't;
She was never ca'd chancy, but canny an' slim,
An' sae it has fair'd of my spinning o't.
But an' my new rock were anes cutted an' dry,
I'll a' Maggie's can an' her cantraps defy,
An' but onie sussie the spinning I'll try,
An' ye's a' hear o' the beginning o't.”
Quo Tibby her dather: “Tak tent fat ye say;
The never a ragg we'll be seeking o't.
Gin ye anes begin, ye'll tarveal's night an' day,
Sae it's vain ony mair to be speaking o't.
Since Lambas I'm now gaing thirty an' twa,
An' never a dud sark had I yet gryt or sma';
An' what war am I? I'm as warm an' as bra'
As thrummy-tail'd Meg that's a spinner o't.
To labour the lint-land an' then buy the seed,
An' then to yoke me to the harrowing o't,
144

An' syne loll amon't an' pike out ilka weed,
Like swine in a sty at the farrowing o't;
Syne powing and ripling an' steeping, an' then
To gar's gae an' spread it upo' the cauld plain;
An' then after a' may be labour in vain,
When the wind and the weet gets the fusion o't.
But tho' it shou'd anter the weather to byde,
Wi' beetles we're set to the drubbing o't;
An' then frae our fingers to gnidge aff the hide,
With the wearisome wark o' the rubbing o't.
An' syne ilka tait maun be heckl'd out-throw;
The lint putten ae gate, anither the tow;
Syne on on a rock wi't, an' it taks a low.
The back o' my hand to the spinning o't!”
Quo Jenny: “I think, 'oman, ye're i' the right,
Set your feet ay a-spar to the spinning o't.
We may tak our advice frae our ain mither's fright
That she gat, when she try'd the beginning o't.
But they'll say that auld fouk are twice bairns indeed,
An' sae she has kythed it, but there's nae need
To sickan an amshack that we drive our head,
As lang's we're sae skair'd frae the spinning o't.”
Quo Nanny the youngest: “I've now heard you a',
An' dowie's your doom o' the spinning o't;
Gin ye, fan the cow flings, the cog cast awa',
Ye may see where ye'll lick up your winning o't.
But I see that but spinning I'll never be bra',
But gae by the name of a dilp or a da',
Sae lack where ye like, I shall anes shak a fa',
Afore I be dung with the spinning o't.
For well I can mind me when black Willie Bell
Had Tibbie there just at the winning o't,
145

What blew up the bargain, she kens well hersell,
Was the want of the knack of the spinning o't.
An' now, poor 'oman, for ought that I ken,
She never may get sick an offer again.
But pine away bit an' bit like Jenkin's hen,
An' naething to wyte but the spinning o't.
But were it for naething but just this alane,
I shall yet hae a bout o' the spinning o't.
They may cast me for ca'ing me black at the bean,
But nae 'cause I shun'd the beginning o't.
But be that as it happens, I care not a strae;
But nane of the lads shall hae it to say,
When they come till woo, ‘She kens naething avae,
Nor has onie can o' the spinning o't.’
In the days they ca'd yore, gin auld fouks had but won
To a surkoat hough-side for the winning o't,
Of coat raips well cut by the cast o' their bun,
They never sought mair o' the spinning o't.
A pair of gray hoggers well clinked benew,
Of nae other lit but the hue of the ew,
With a pair of rough rullions to scuff thro' the dew,
Was the fee they sought at the beginning o't.
But we maun hae linen, an' that maun hae we,
An' how get we that but the spinning o't?
How can we hae face for to seek a gryt fee,
Except we can help at the winning o't?
An' we maun hae pearlins an' mabbies an' cocks,
An' some other thing that the ladies ca' smokes;
An' how get we that gin we tak na our rocks,
And pow what we can at the spinning o't?
146

'Tis needless for us for to tak our remarks
Frae our mither's miscooking the spinning o't;
She never kend ought o' the gueed of the sarks,
Frae this aback to the beginning o't.
Twa-three ell of plaiden was a' that was sought
By our auld-warld bodies, an' that boot be bought;
For in ilka town sickan things was na wrought,
So little they kend o' the spinning o't.”

WILT THOU GO AND MARRY, KETTY?

[_]

To the Tune of “Mullachard's Reel.”

Wilt thou go and marry, Ketty?
Could'st thou, think'st thou, take a man?
'Twere a pity, you so pretty
Should not do the thing you can.
You're a pretty, charming creature,
Wherefore should you ly alone?
Beautie's of a fading nature,
Has a season to be gone.
Therefore, while ye're blooming, Ketty,
Listen to the loving swain;
Take example by fair Betty,
Once the darling o' the men;
Who with her coy and haughty nature
Kept them off, till she grew old;
Now she's hiss'd by every creature,
Let not this of you be told.
And yet, my dear and lovely Ketty,
I hae this one thing to tell:
147

I wad wish no man to get ye,
Save it were my very sell.
Therefore take me at my offer,
Or behad, an' I'll tak you.
He's worth no mistris that would scoff her.
Marry, Ket, an' then we'll woo.
Many words are useless, Ketty,
You do want, and so do I;
Sure you want that one should get ye,
And this want I can supply.
Say then, Ketty, so you take me
As your only choice of men,
Never after to forsake me,
And the priest will say Amen.
An' then, an' then, an' then, O Ketty,
Then we're marri'd, what comes then?
Then no other man will get ye,
For ye'll be my very ain.
Then we'll kiss and clap at pleasure,
Nor take notice of envy,
Once I've got my lovely treasure,
Let the world gaze and die.

TO THE BEGGING WE WILL GO.

Of a' the trades that ever was,
The begging is the best;
When I am tyr'd begging,
I will ly down and rest.
To the begging we will go, will go, will go,
To the begging we will go.
148

An' first I'll have a meal-pock,
Of good aum'd leather made,
To had at least a firlot,
An' room for beef and bread.
To the begging, &c.
I'll next unto the turner,
An' cause him turn a dish,
To had at least three chopins,
For less I wad na wish.
To the begging, &c.
I'll then unto the cobler,
An' cause him sole my shoon
An inch thick i' the boddom,
An' clouted well aboon.
To the begging, &c.
I'll carry to the taylor
A web of hoding gray,
That he may mak a clock of it,
To hap me night and day.
To the begging, &c.
Then I'll unto some greasy cook,
An' buy frae him a hat,
That is baith stiff and weather-proof,
An' glitt'ring o'er wi' fatt.
To the begging, &c.
Then with a pike-staff i' my hand,
To close my begging stock,
I'll go unto some lucky wife,
To hansel my new pock.
To the begging, &c.
149

But yet ere I begin my trade,
I'll let my beard grow strang,
Nor pair my nails for year and day,
For beggars use them lang.
To the begging, &c.
I'll put no water o' my hands,
As little o' my face,
For still the lowner like I am,
The more my trade I'll grace.
To the begging, &c.
When I the men at work espie,
I'll hirple to the house;
If nane be in but the goodwife,
Then I'll crack wondrous crouse.
To the begging, &c.
I'll seek frae her my lodging,
Tho' it be far frae night,
Then to let me be trudging,
She'll sair me right an' tight.
To the begging, &c.
At ilka house I'll play the same,
Till it be growing mark,
And the goodman be sitten down,
And come in frae his wark.
To the begging, &c.
Then saftly leaning o'er my staff,
I'll say wi' hat in hand,
“Will the poor man get lodging here?
Alas! I dow na stand.”
To the begging, &c.
150

Then lucky happily will say,
“Poor man, we hae na room:
Ere a' our fouks be set about,
We wadna had your thumb.”
To the begging, &c.
“Then well-I-wat, goodwife,” I'll say,
“I's no seek near the fire;
Let me but rest my weary banes,
Behind backs at the spire.
To the begging, &c.
I'll seek but bree out of the pot,
Frae 'mang your boiling kail,
To be my supper brose, for I
My sell hae cap an' meal.”
To the begging, &c.
“Hout ay, poor man, come ben your wa',”
The gossip syne will say;
“We'll ca' a wedge to make you room;
'T'as been a cauldriff day.”
To the begging, &c.
When at the fire I'm set a wee,
Then I'll begin and sing,
An' do my best to make them gauf
All round about the ring.
To the begging, &c.
I'll pick up a' the merry tales,
That I hear anywhere;
An' all the news of town and land,
And O! I'll tell them clare.
To the begging, &c.
151

When the goodwife begins to rise,
And ready make the kail,
Then I'll bang out my beggar dish,
An' stap it fou o' meal.
To the begging, &c.
Then may be the goodwife will say,
“Poor man, let be your meal.
Ye're welcome to your brose the night,
And to your bread an' kail.”
To the begging, &c.
And then I will be sure to pray,
To had them a' their heal,
And wish that never they nor theirs
Want either milk or meal.
To the begging, &c.
But then I'll never mind when the
Goodman to labour cries;
The thivel on the pottage pan,
Shall strick my hour to rise.
To the begging, &c.
And when I'm tursing at my pocks,
If the goodwife shall say,
“Stay still, an' get your morning meal;
What maks your haste away?”
To the begging, &c.
O then, what bony words I'll gee!
And roose her out of wit,
And pray, as lang as I do gang,
That still she there may sit.
To the begging, &c.
152

When I of any weddings hear,
I'll cast me to be there;
And pray my hearty benison
Unto the winsome pair.
To the begging, &c.
Then with my cap into my hand,
My hat into the other,
Wherever fouk are drinking bauld,
Then I'll come bobbing thither.
To the begging, &c.
Then I will to the minstrel say—
For they are never scant—
“Wi' leave o' the good company,
Play me the beggar's rant.”
To the begging, &c.
Then will I wallop out a dance,
Or tell some merry tale,
Till some good fellow in my dish
Turn o'er the stoup and ale.
To the begging, &c.
Then I will drink their healths about,
And wish them a' good heal;
And pray they never want enough,
Nor yet a heart to deal.
To the begging, &c.
But I am o'er lang frae my trade,
If things shall answer sae;
'Tis time that I were at the gate,
An' tursing up the brae.
To the begging, &c.
153

If things shall answer to my scheme,
I's come again and tell;
But if I hae mistane my trade,
I's keep it to my sell.
To the begging, &c.

MARRI'D AND WOO'D AN' A'.

Marri'd an' woo'd an' a',
Marri'd an' woo'd an' a',
The dandilly toss of the parish,
Is marri'd and woo'd an' a'.
The wooers will now ride thinner,
And by when they wonted to ca'.
'Tis needless to speer for the lassie
That's marri'd an' woo'd an' a'.
The girss had na freedom of growing,
As lang as she was na awa';
Nor i' the town could there be stowing,
For wooers that wonted to ca'.
For drinking an' dancing an' brulzies,
An' boxing an' shaking o' fa's,
The town was forever in tulzies;
But now the lassie's awa'.
But had they but kend her as I did,
Their errand it wad hae been sma';
She neither kend spinning nor carding,
Nor brewing nor baking ava'.
154

But the wooers ran a' mad upon her,
Because she was bony an' bra',
An' sae I dread will be seen on her,
When she's by hand and awa'.
He'll roose her but sma' that has marri'd her,
Now when he's gotten her a',
And wish, I fear, he had miscarri'd her,
Tocher and ribbons an' a'.
For her art it lay a' in her dressing,
But gin her bras anes were awa',
I fear she'll turn out o' the fesson,
An' knit up her muggans wi' straw.
For yesterday I yeed to see her,
An' O! she was wonderous bra',
Yet she cry'd till her husband to gee her
An ell of red ribbons, or twa.
He up, and he set down beside her
A reel and a wheelie to ca';
She said, Was he this gate to guide her?
An' out at the door, an' awa'.
Her neist rode was hame till her mither,
Who speer'd at her, Now how was a'?
She says till her, “Was't for nae ither,
That I was marry'd awa',
But gae an' sit down till a wheelie,
An' at it baith night an' day ca',
An' then hae it reel'd by a cheelie
That ever was crying to draw?”
Her mither says till her: “Hegh, lassie,
He's wyssest, I fear, o' the twa;
155

Ye'll hae litle to put i' the bassie,
Gin ye be awkward to draw.
'Tis now ye should work like a tyger,
An' at it baith wallop an' ca',
As lang's ye hae youthit an' vigor,
An' littleanes an' debt are awa'.
Your thrift it will look little bouked,
An' ye had a red weam or twa;
An' think yoursell stress'd when ye're souked,
Tho' ye sud do nae mair ava',
But sit i' the flet like a midden,
An' for your necessities ca'.
An' sae ye had best to do bidding,
As lang's ye hae feauto to ca'.
Sae swyth awa' hame to your hadding,
Mair fool than when ye came awa';
Ye maunna now keep ilka wedding,
Nor gae sae clean-finger'd an' bra';
But mind wi' a neiper ye're yoked,
And that ye your end o't maun draw,
Or else ye deserve to be docked,
Sae that is an answer for a'.”
Young luckie now finds hersell nidder'd,
An' wist na well what gate to ca',
But wi' hersell even consider'd,
That hamewith were better to draw;
An e'en tak her chance o' her landing,
However the matter might fa'.
Fouk need no on fraits to be standing,
That's marry'd and woo'd an' a'.
156

WHAT AILS THE LASSES AT ME?

[_]

To the Tune “An' the Kirk wad let me be.”

I am a batchelor winsome,
A farmer by rank and degree,
An' few I see gang out mair handsome
To kirk or to market than me.
I have outsight and insight and credit,
And from any eelist I'm free;
I'm well enough boarded and bedded,
And what ails the lasses at me?
My boughts of good store are no scanty,
My byrs are well stocked wi' ky,
Of meal i' my girnels is plenty,
An' twa or three easments forby.
An' horse to ride out when they're weary,
An' cock with the best they can see,
An' then be ca'd dawty and deary—
I fairly what ails them at me.
Behind backs, afore fouk, I've woo'd them,
An' a' the gates o't that I ken;
An' when they leugh o' me, I trow'd them,
An' thought I had won, but what then?
When I speak of matters they grumble,
Nor are condescending and free,
But at my proposals ay stumble.
I wonder what ails them at me.
I've try'd them baith highland an' lowland,
Where I a good bargain cud see;
But nane o' them fand I wad fall in
Or say they wad buckle wi' me.
157

With jooks an' wi' scraps I've address'd them,
Been with them baith modest and free;
But whatever way I caress'd them,
There's something still ails them at me.
O, if I kend but how to gain them,
How fond of the knack wad I be!
Or what an address could obtain them,
It should be twice welcome to me.
If kissing and clapping wad please them,
That trade I should drive till I die;
But however I study to ease them,
They've still an exception at me.
There's wratacks an' cripples an' cranshaks,
An' a' the wandoghts that I ken,
No sooner they speak to the wenches
But they are ta'en far enough ben.
But when I speak to them that's stately,
I find them ay ta'en with the gee,
An' get the denial right flatly.
What think ye can ail them at me?
I have yet but ae offer to make them,
If they wad but hearken to me;
And that is, I'm willing to tak them
If they their consent wad but gee.
Let her that's content write a billet,
An' get it transmitted to me.
I hereby engage to fulfill it,
Tho' cripple, tho' blind she sud be.
158

BILLET BY JEANY GRADDEN.

Dear batchleour, I've read your billet,
Your strait an' your hardships I see;
An' tell you it shall be fulfilled,
Tho' it were by none other but me.
These forty years I've been neglected,
An' nane has had pity on me;
Such offer should not be rejected,
Whoever the offerer be.
For beauty, I lay no claim to it,
Or may be I had been away;
Tho' tocher or kindred could do it,
I have no pretensions to thae;
The most I can say, I'm a woman,
An' that I a wife want to be;
An' I'll tak exception at no man
That's willing to tak nane at me.
And now I think I may be cocky,
Since fortune has smurtl'd on me;
I'm Jenny, an' ye shall be Jockie;
'Tis right we together sud be;
For nane of us cud find a marrow,
So sadly forfairn were we,
Fouk sud no at any thing tarrow,
Whose chance looked naething to be.
On Tuesday speer for Jeany Gradden.
When I i' my pens ween to be,
Just at the sign of The Old Maiden,
Where ye shall be sure to meet me.
159

Bring with you the priest for the wedding,
That a' things just ended may be,
An' we'll close the whole with the bedding,
An' wha'll be sae merry as we?
A cripple I'm not, ye forsta' me,
Tho' lame of a hand that I be;
Nor blind is there reason to ca' me,
Altho' I see but with ae eye;
But I'm just the chap that you wanted,
So tightly our state doth agree;
For nane wad hae you, ye have granted;
As few, I confess, wad hae me.

THE BRIDE'S BREAST-KNOT.

O tight and bony was the bride,
When she got on her breast-knot;
Her father that sat her beside,
That it was Peggy wist not;
Her head with lawn was cover'd o'er,
With edgings fine all set before,
And kissing strings three yards and more,
But naething like the breast-knot.
O the bony, O the bony, O the bony breast-knot!
The lad thought he was far behind
That her that had it kist not;
With specks of gold it was o'er laid,
And was baith massy, long and bred,
And many a loop and twining had,
Ere it became a breast-knot.
160

When in the morning she was drest
In her new gown, she mist not
To bid her maid put on the rest,
Especially the breast-knot;
She was a seamstress to her trade,
And wondrous dressy fike she made;
At last her ignorance betraid,
For right the knot she keest not.
The bride stood up afore the glass,
And what to do she wist not,
Because her maid mistook the place
Of her new bridal breast-knot.
She plac'd it up, she plac'd it down,
Threw off and then put on her gown;
At last she fell into a swoon,
'Twas lucky that she burst not.
When she o'ercame, with tears she cry'd,
“Alas my bony breast-knot!
I better ne'er had been a bride,
Than thus to slip the first knot.”
The taylor, that was there all night,
Came in and said he'd set it right.
You'd laugh to see the monky pight,
How he set up the breast-knot.
Now of her pain the bride is eas'd,
But at the bodie keest not
A sixpence, that her mind had pleas'd
In placing of her breast-knot.
He looked sair, that she should do't,
And downward to his pocket bow'd;
But yet she never understood
The clinking of his waistcoat.
161

APPENDIX.

164

WOO'D AND MARRIED AND A'.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

1

The bride came out of the byre,
And O as she dighted her cheeks!
Sirs, I'm to be married the night,
And has neither blankets, nor sheets,
Has neither blankets, nor sheets,
Nor scarce a coverlet too.
The bride that has a'thing to borrow,
Has e'en right meikle ado.
Woo'd and married and a',
Woo'd and married and a',
And was nae she very weel aff,
That was woo'd and married and a'?

2

Out spake the bride's father,
As he came in frae the plough,
O had ye're tongue, my doughter,
And ye's get gear enough;
The stirk that stands i'th' tether,
And our bra' basin'd yade
Will carry ye hame your corn;
What wad ye be at, ye jade?
Woo'd and married, &c.

3

Out spake the bride's mither,
What d---l needs a' this pride!
I had nae a plack in my pooch
That night I was a bride;
My gown was linsy-woolsy,
And ne'er a sark ava;
And ye hae ribbons and buskins,
Mae than ane or twa.
Woo'd and married, &c.
165

4

What's the matter? quo' Willie,
Tho' we be scant o' claiths,
We'll creep the nearer the gither,
And we'll smore a' the fleas:
Simmer is coming on,
And we'll get teats of woo;
And we'll get a lass o' our ain,
And she'll spin claiths anew.
Woo'd and married, &c.

5

Out spake the bride's brither,
As he came in wi' the kie,
Poor Willie had ne'er a tane ye,
Had he kent ye as well as I;
For you're baith proud and saucy,
And nae for a poor man's wife;
Gin I canna get a better,
Ile never tak ane i' my life.
Woo'd and married, &c.

6

Out spake the bride's sister,
As she came in frae the byre,
O gin I were but married!
It's a' that I desire:
But we poor folk maun live single,
And do the best we can;
I dinna care what I shou'd want,
If I cou'd get but a man.
Woo'd and married, &c.
166

THE BREAST-KNOTS.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

Hey the bonny, hey the bonny,
O the bonny breast-knots;
Tight and bonny were they a',
When they got on their breast-knots.

1

There was a bridal in this town,
And till't the lasses a' were boun',
With mankie facings on their gown,
And some of them had breast-knots.
Hey the bonny, &c.

2

And there was mony a lusty lad,
As ever handled grape and gaud,
I wat their manhood well they shaw'd
At ruffling of the breast-knot.
Hey the bonny, &c.

3

At nine o'clock they did conveen,
Some clad in blue, some clad in green,
Wi' glancing buckles in their sheen,
And flowers upon their waist-coat.
Hey the bonny, &c.

4

The bride by this time was right fain,
When that she saw sae light a train,
She pray'd the day might keep frae rain,
For spoiling of their breast-knots.
Hey the bonny, &c.

5

Forth came the wives a' wi' a phrase,
And wish'd the lassie happy days,
And muckle thought they of her claiths,
And specially the breast-knots.
Hey the bonny, &c.
167

6

Forth spake the mither, fan she saw,
The bride and maidens a' sae bra',
Wi' cackling clouts, black be their fa',
They have made a bonny cast o't.
Hey the bonny, &c.

7

Next down their breakfast it was set,
Some barley lippies of milk meat,
It leiped them it was sae het,
As soon as they did taste o't.
Hey the bonny, &c.

8

Till some frae them the spoons they threw,
And swore that they had burnt their mou
And some into their cutty blew,
I wat their will they mist not.
Hey the bonny, &c.

9

When ilka ane had claw'd their plate,
The piper lad he looked blate
Altho' they said that he should eat,
I trow he lost the best o't.
Hey the bonny, &c.

10

Syne forth they got a' wi' a loup,
O'er creels and deals and a' did coup,
The piper said, wi' them d---l scoup,
He'd make a hungry feast o't.
Hey the bonny, &c.

11

Syne off they got a' wi' a fling,
Each lass unto her lad did cling,
And a' cry'd for a different spring,
The bride she sought the breast-knot.
Hey the bonny, &c.
168

12

Fan they ty'd up their marriage band,
At the bridegroom's they neist did land,
Forth came auld Madge wi' her split mawn
And bread and cheese a hist o't.
Hey the bonny, &c.

13

She took a quarter and a third,
On the bride's head she gae a gird,
Till farls flew athort the yird,
And parted round the rest o't.
Hey the bonny, &c.

14

The bride then by the hand they took
Twice, thrice they led her round ye crook,
Some said goodwife well mat ye brook,
And some great count they cast not.
Hey the bonny, &c.

15

All ran to kilns and barns in ranks,
Some sat on deals, and some on planks,
The piper lad stood on his shanks,
And dirled up the breast knot.
Hey the bonny, hey the bonny,
O the bonny breast knots;
Tight and bonny were they a',
When they got on their breast knots.
169

THE BRIDAL O'T.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

1

They say that Jockey'll speed weel o't,
They say that Jockey'll speed weel o't,
For he grows brawer ilka day;
I hope we'll hae a bridal o't.
For yesternight nae farder gane,
The backhouse at the sidewa' o't
He there wi' Meg was mirden seen,
I hope we'll hae a bridal o't.

2

An we had but a bridal o't,
An we had but a bridal o't,
We'd leave the rest unto gude luck
Altho' there should betide ill o't;
For bridal days are merry times
And young folks like the coming o't,
And Scribblers they bang up their rhymes
And Pipers they the bumming o't.

3

The lasses like a bridal o't,
The lasses like a bridal o't,
Their braws maun be in rank and file
Altho' that they should guide ill o't:
The boddom o' the kist is then
Turn'd up unto the immost o't,
The end that held the keeks sae clean
Is now become the teemest o't.

4

The bangster at the threshing o't,
The bangster at the threshing o't,
Afore it comes is fidgin fain
And ilka day's a clashing o't;
He'll sell his jerkin for a groat,
His linder for anither o't,
And ere he want to clear his shot,
His sark'll pay the tither o't.
170

5

The Pipers and the Fiddlers o't,
The Pipers and the Fiddlers o't,
Can smell a bridal unco far
And like to be the middlers o't:
Fan thick and threefald they convene
Ilk ane envies the tither o't,
And wishes nane but him alane
May ever see anither o't.

6

Fan they hae done wi' eating o't,
Fan they hae done wi' eating o't,
For dancing they gae to the green,
And aiblins to the beating o't:
He dances best that dances fast,
And loups at ilka reesing o't,
And claps his hands frae hough to hough,
And furls about the feezings o't.
171

THE FORTUNATE SHEPHERD,

OR THE ORPHAN.

Now Lords & Ladies, Knights & Gentlemen,
That have so roos'd the labours of my pen,
As well's ye lesser fouks that lent your lift,
An' keest into my lap your wellcome gift,
May a' the thanks a gratefu' heart can gee
Be your reward, and take them here from me.
For forth as soon's my blushing bookie went,
And that therefrae the Author boot be kent,
What fear an' dridder fluster'd i' my veins
There's nae flesh living but mysell that kens.
But when your friendly verdict anes came out,
That I was fidging fain, ye need na doubt.
Sonse fa' me, but my very heartstrings dirl'd
As blyth as his, that at het whisky birl'd;
Ilk new account that I had done sae well
Made a' my passions dance into a reel.
What needs me heal't? It's better to be plain
Than say that I about it was not fain,
For fain I was, and e'en it cost me pains
172

To keep in rander my ambitious veins.
That storm, I own, is in great measure past,
And now my pulses do not brawl sae fast.
Yet many a time I find a glad'ning twang
Wi' a broad-side out-throw my bosome bang.
As well's I can, I strive to keep them in,
An' still am feezing down the saucy pin;
But poets may be vain, auld Allan says't;
So I maun thole wi' others to be prais't.
Happy, thrice happy has my Nory been,
And mony a bony fairly has she seen;
An' has her place, nae doubt, in closets fine,
Where goud and turkey wi' sweet mixture shine;
In noble bosoms aftimes ta'en her nap,
Or saftly lien upon my Ladie's Lap,
Parting the happy spot 'twixt her and Poll,
And even lien beside him, cheek for joll.
O gin I knew what way I could reward
This public mark of unforsair'd regard,
How to the task would I myself address,
And a' the Muses flatter for success!
Wou'd Scota, wou'd kind Scota but anes mair
(That to my sleeping Nory led the Squire)
Lend me a lift, as well I ken she can,
My neist essay should make A Happy Man;
A Fortunate Shepherd next should be my theme,
Wou'd she but cast me in a driv'ling dream.
Well, Scota, wale of Muses! must I now
Anes mair begin and make my court to you?
Well are ye worth what homage I can gee,
For kind ye've been, an' mair nor kind to me.
Lend but your lug this anes, and if ye sud
Denzie yoursell to mine to gee a thud,
I care no by tho' I oblige mysell
Hyne never mair question whare ye dwell.
173

Attour the Muses that have lang been nine
Shall now be ten, & ye the foremost shine.
What wad ye mair? Auld Allan never bade
You sick a bode, altho' your dauted lad.
Gryte is the heeze ye've geen unto my fame,
And 'mong the poets registr'd my name.
Hence lang, perhaps, lang hence may cotted be
My auld proverbs well lined wi' blythsome glee:
As when the jampher i' my former tale
O'ertook a cabbrach knibblack with his heel,
And headlins stoited o'er into the moss;
Some reader then may say, “Fair fa' thee, Ross!”
When ablins I'll be lang, lang dead an' gane,
An' few remember there was sick a ane.
That's something, sirs, but few 'cept poets wou'd
Confes't indeed to be a real good.
But well fell them, poor fouk, for they can fare
How snug with the cameleon on the air!
It's nae the prospect of uncertain gain,
(At least wi' me) that makes them half so vain,
But the fain kitling of a canty thought,
By some kind Muse into their bosoms wrought.
That claws their back, hence springs their purest glee;
Then Fame suggests, “This is a chance for me.”
For when baith sense and ryme together meet,
The happy writer has a feast compleat.
'Tis true, when a poor penny comes at last,
The empty pouch admits the canny cast,
Come to relieve a long poetic fast.
Now honest Scota, wi' my seelfu' sports
I hope I have no gar'd you take the dorts;
Nor have misca'd your leed, but done my best
To make appear our language wants not taste.
Sae yet anes mair blaw throw my chattr'd reed,
For now if ever is my time of need.
When last my pen ye favour'd with a puff,
I ran no likely risk of speaking buff,
174

Because before me there was widely spread
All nature's stores in their pure artless bed;
Where at my wiss I might gae throw and cull,
Gae by the warst, and up the fairest pull.
But I that field have rang'd, nor maun again,
Where I before had done't, set down my pen.
O help me, Scota! here's a pinching strait;
For you can only bauk this threat'ning fate:
If I be found to copie o'er mysell,
“That's Flaviana o'er again,” they'll tell.
So let me not my readers disappoint,
Nor tell an idle story out of joint.
Her answer was: “Syn ye hae doon sae well,
I'll help you yet to shape another tale;
Perconon that ye by your text abide,
And take pure nature for your trusty guide;
And use my leed, as ye did i' the last;
Sae doing, ye may get a canny cast.”
O might I yet anes mair your pulses try,
And of your roosing prove the verity!
If but a pig ye've got into your pock,
You'll ablins say, “Again he shall na mock;”
And ablins some wha do not mind their pence
Are easie, tho' they have not given't for sense.
Lang syne, in troublesome times, in Cromwell's days,
When weers and mister had harash'd the braes,
When gryte an' sma', wi' pinching want opprest,
Were forc'd to seek their bit where they coud best;
When housholds haill took a' the gate at anes,
And where there were na mair, set out them lanes;
And sick as had gar'd fouk bareheaded stand
Stood now at poorer doors wi' cap in hand;
'Mang sick's were forc'd to this mishap to bow,
Young Kenneth's case I here present to you.
175

A blooming boy was he, roundfac'd and fair,
And like the threeds of goud his yellow hair;
Stout limbs and round, an' firm as ony tree
Were his, an' of a' seeming eelist free;
No linen kind had ever toucht his skin,
As few thir days had can that claith to spin;
A linder coorse, cut out of hodin gray
Neist to his skin as white's the paper lay;
A blanket of the same his shouders clad,
A spacious brutch before its fastning made;
On shoon or hose for him was wair'd no cost,
To save his youthfu' limbs from snow or frost,
Thro' which with all indifference he wade,
Nor of his rode the least distinction made.
'Twixt five and six his eeld then seem'd to be,
His leed black Earse, his carriage bald & free.
Him from some island or far northern nook
Alang wi' her some beggar woman took.
Far had they gane thro' mony a wilsom glen,
And aft been forc'd to quarter in a den,
Sair spent wi' faut, with hardly pith to stand,
When they fell in at last on Murray land.
Want there had not got leave to show his face,
And bread was to be had in ilka place.
Upon some gentle Place the wand'ring twa,
Baith weet and weary, on a night did fa'.
Well were they sair'd in meal & lodging there,
And got what they coud eat of halesome fare.
Young Kenneth now, to weakning fastings us'd,
Unto his hurt his present wealth abus'd;
Grew sick upon't, & almost swarft awa'.
His guide took fright, & did for caurance ca'.
The lady kind some halesome things apply'd,
So that untill he caur'd, wi' her he stay'd.
His wyllie guide thinks this a canny cast.
Ae morning up she gets, and aff she past;
176

And leaves young Kenneth horn-hard asleep,
Weening the lady wou'd the Orphan keep.
And well she guess'd. Soon he regains his heal,
And gets what he cou'd take of milk & meal.
Few days anes past, he never minds his guide,
But peaceably doth at the Place abide.
Some couch within the kitchin nook he got,
And never dreamt the changing of his lot;
Stumps out and in with quite indiff'rent air,
Baith happy in his pastime and his fare.
His guide herself unto her chance betakes,
Yet of her pett her observation makes,
But so as never to approach the Place,
Or look the house or orphan in the face;
Lest she thereby meith change the happy lot
That Kenneth by his coming there had got.
Yet in the country still she made her round,
But in her circle never touched the town;
Content to learn her little pett was there,
And that he was so happy in his fare.
By now my man is frank and hearty grown,
And travels out and in about the town;
And by degrees begins the leed to learn,
And very soon becomes a household bairn.
The lady finds, by Mashley's morning trip,
That she had meant to gee the boy the slip
And leave him there, perswaded well that they
Wou'd never put him frae the town away.
And so it fared, he grows a common pett,
And a' the house is for his wellfare sett.
New claise he got, was sair'd wi' hose and shoon;
Of these right fain he rambles up an' down.
At last, whan he had been a towmont there,
He's set to go about with the young squire,
That by a year or twa had shorter eeld,
But was by nature a camstery chield;
And mony a pingel fell atweesh the twa,
An' aft young master's back did Kenneth cla';
177

Knew na distinction 'twixt himsell an' nane
Of Adam's race that day that yeed on bane;
Was frae the town at last like to be driven,
To monky-tricks he was sae oddly given.
But as he looked ay so brisk and crouse,
He's favour'd by the gentles o' the house;
But 'boon them a' young Henny height by name
Pled the importance of her last night's dream,
Quhilk was: their castle just was like to fa',
And Kenneth with a largue sustain'd it a';
Sae it were best he 'bout the house should bide,
An' be at hand whatever meith betide.
“His bit an' baid,” adds she, “will ne'er be mist,
And fouk, they say, that help the poor are blest.”
“Well,” says the lady, “Henny, that may be.
But he an' Rory never will agree.
He is not couthy, neither is he kind;
Nor minds him mair than tho' he were not mine.
That cools my heart unto the billy sair,
And I hae frae him ta'en aback my care.
But since o' him ye seem to hae conceit,
That he get here his bit I sanna let;
But let the shepherd take him ilka day
Unto the hill, there let him herd or play.
In course of time he may the herding learn,
And to the house become a usefu' bairn.
For since he's fa'en here, we'll be to blame
Gin we his mind do not to something frame.
Dick maun be tell'd to learn the spark to read,
An' to a sober carriage strive to breed.
For as he is an honest chield himsell,
He'll be the fitter unto him to tell;
An' as he can about but hardly creep,
An' scarcely watch ilk corner of the sheep,
His travel he can Kenneth gar had in,
Till he to ken the trade himsell begin;
178

And ablins when auld Dick gees o'er the post
The youth himsell may can to rule the rost.
To cauld an' hunger well has he been bred,
Whilk i' this case may stand in meikle stead.
Sae, if the shepherd him shall rightly frame,
'Tmay come to prove the reading o' your dream.
For aftentimes the right increase of store
Has fashen fouk again just frae the door.”
But litle ken'd the lady Cupid had
His monky-tricks upon her daughter plaid.
As litle kent hersell that it was love
That did for Kenneth sae her pity move;
Sae saft, sae deep, sae sleeketly the dart
Was witter'd i' the bottom o' her heart.
Poor honest youngling, only gaing her nine,
Ne'er dream'd she was in love 'cause she was kind.
But whether love or kindness was the sort,
She loot it out & never stroove to smor't.
Neist morning Dick is fashen to the Ha',
An' bidden take the youth to help to ca',
An' gar him turn as he should chance to need,
An' to the herding-trade exactly breed;
Frae his ill laits to see to had him in,
And to a sober course of life begin.
Young miss heard this, and as she did na ken
What 'twas about him that had made her sae fain,
Began to greet, an' said that she wad gae
Unto the hill, if Kenneth sud do sae.
For fa wi' her, she said, wad play at hame?
Beside, she dridder'd something 'bout her dream.
The lady, seeing the poor youngling's mind
Sae browden sett, & to the boy inclin'd,
And fearing Cupid might have try'd his art
Upon the thoughtless lassie's tender heart,
Resolv'd that she would crush it i' the bud,
Before it gather'd strength, as well's she coud.
But thinks that it wou'd be o'er kittle wark
Just all at anes to brake her frae the spark,
179

As kenning that her temper was na jest,
Nor coud endure a conter i' the least.
Sae she resolves piece-meal to wear't awa',
Nor to the head the nail at anes to ca'.
Then to the shepherd says: “Ye may no mird
Throw the out glens some days the sheep to hird;
But near the Place, upo' the sunny braes,
Ay row them in, at least a stound o' days;
An' gar young Kenneth ever run about
To hadd them in as they are starting out.”
Then says to Henny: “When ye hae read your book,
I'll lat you gang about the store to look,
An' play a while with Kenny o' the green,
Syne come again unto your seam bedeen.”
When some few days were in this manner spent,
And the young fondling was right well content,
The sheep again are order'd to the bent.
First day they're gane, young Henny at her hour
Unto the sunny braes straight makes her tour;
Looks round for herds and sheep, and missing them,
All in a roar she galloping comes hame.
The mother speers, What? had she got a fa'?
“Na, na,” she says, “but Kenny is awa'.
Ye've pitten him frae the town, right well I ken;
An' gryt's my fear he'll never come again.”
“Na, bairn,” she says, “the store are to the bent.
They'll come at e'en, sae had yoursell content.
Ye'll then see Ken. Ill something till his head!
For he has rais'd a bony steer indeed.
But I'm surpris'd that ye, a lady born,
To play 'mang beggar geets yoursell wad scorn.
For tho' I own 'tis well done that ye sud
Unto the poor do a' the good ye coud,
But as to you a better chance is given,
Unto yoursell ye them sud never even.
Wi' your ain sort you sud yoursell take up,
Nor denzie anes with them to bite or sup,
Or any ways be free, but let them ken
180

Nae day they rise, wi' you they can come ben.
For, Henny, ye are nae sae young a bairn
But ye by now to ken yoursell may learn.
For we that's gentle fouks for ever sud
Kinsprekle be for ilka thing that's good.
And when we to the poor folk's manners fa',
It looks as gin our ain were worn awa'.
But maist of a', young ladies sud tak care
They dinna fa' into this shamefu' snare.
For says the proverb, ‘Sick as ye wad be
Yoursells, to sick see that ye draw you too.’”
Shame now begins o'er Henny's face to spread;
Yet soberly she to her mother said:
“It may be true indeed that geets of kairds
May not come near to sick as come of lairds,
But Kenny's nane of thae, as far's we ken,
And ablins come of very honest men.
Want put him to the pock, with mony mae,
An' even gentles boot to beg, they say.
An' how ken we but Kenny's of that sort?
I'm sure his bony skin pleads stoutly for't.
He does not ban nor swear, but o! he's keen
At ony warpling game upo' the green.
Nae other bairns are here about but he,
'Cept Rory, and he's ay aur sair for me;
An' wert na Kenny, he wad be my dead,
Wi' mony a weary dird upo' the head;
But he ay takes my part, for Rory kens
That he's his master, and cou'd beat his beans.”
“But,” says the mother, “ye have a' the wyte,
An' that gars Rory aftimes bear the syte;
An' he's your brither, and ye sud tak care
He for your sake fall not into a snare.
Besides, ye're muckle grown, an' it's a shame
To see you tumbling o' the green wi' them.
Nae mair ye maun be geen to sickan pranks,
Or I assure you Ken maun tak his shanks.
Your book an' seam maun now tak up your hand,
181

An' sae ye maun sick comerads disband.
Your cousin Peg is now come frae the school;
I'll wad, like you she sanna play the fool.
I'll send for her, an' ye sall play thegither,
An' of companions ye sall need nae ither.
I'll wad that she sall not tak up wi' Ken,
Nor whare she is allow him to come ben.”
Now Henny gees it o'er to rink and range,
When Peggy comes, newfangle of the change.
Her glegly hears a' day, at night she dreams
About her cod, her bobbins, books an' seams.
But soon lost dinto of her sareless tales,
And still the langor for dear Ken prevails.
But shame had got the better o' her heart,
And she maun try to gain her ends by art:
Unto her mother saftly says: “We'll gae
To see the lambs come binn'ring down the brae.
To Cousin Peg 'twill bra diversion be,
That has na chance ilk day the like to see.”
The mother yields, nor Henny's cunning heeds,
Nor the intention of her question dreads.
Sae in an ev'ning fair the nymphs gang out,
And thro' the braes baith scamper round about.
At last the sheep in strings come frae the glen,
And in the reer young Henny spies her Ken
Whistling and dancing hame behind the store,
That spread amo' the bents by mony a score.
The sight o' him gar'd a' her heartstrings dreel,
An' she begins to sing, to dance and reel,
And round her cousin loup like ony lamb
That for a souk e'en to its minny came.
Peg is astonish'd at her suddain glee,
As she no proper ground thereof coud see,
An' to her says: “What ails thee, lassie? Tell!
For, troth, I think ye are beside yoursell.”
She never minds, but plays her merry pranks,
182

Till Kenny's now come past the benty banks,
And coming very near; then hadds her hand,
And leaving aff her sports, begins to stand.
Ken now by Dick's good care was grown right feat,
His head well kaim'd, his gartens ty'd full neat,
His face well washen, and frae head to foot
Was nae wrang prin, nor yet misus'd his coat;
In his ae hand he held his lesson book,
His ither held a trigg, well-whittl'd crook.
His snug appearance drew Peg's eyes aside,
An' “O! This is a bony hird,” she cry'd.
This claw'd young Henny's back, yet was na fain
That she sud sae commend him o'er again.
Yet she insists, an' says, Where had we gat
So trig, so tight a litle hird as that?
“Some years ago, when famine pincht the poor,”
Young Henny says, “he just came to the door,
Led by some beggar wife, that slipt her wa'
When on his feet she saw the billy fa'.
Lang time with us he travell'd out an' in,
Till he to strive with Rory does begin.
My mother then gars take him to the glen,
That he frae Dick the herding trade may ken.
Now Dick's a dainty couthie bodie there,
An' has of Kenny ta'en an unko care;
Lears him to read an' featly wyre his claise,
To kaim his head & sicklike things as these.
An' gin he likes, can lear him too to write,
An' in a thousand other things perfite;
For he's among our formest scholars here,
An' a' the parson's questions has perqueer.”
As true's she said, young Kenny gae his ear
To ilka thing that honest Dick coud lear.
Nae duns he was, for he had heart an' sprite,
An' in short time turn'd out a lad compleat.
An' tho' he Henny with his heart did like,
Yet did no offer unto her to speak.
Shame now wi' Dick's injunctions witly join'd
183

Had pow'r to stem the ardor o' his mind.
And Peg's gleg glowr, just like to look him thro',
Nae litle helpt his bashfu'ness to grow.
But yet the lyth about his heart that lay
By some sma inklings shaw'd itsell that day.
For to the lambs while Pegy gees a look,
In Kenny's hand Hen snatches at the book,
And with a smiling smurtle ca'd it bra;
Baith quat the grip, and loot the bookie fa';
As fast baith lout to tak it up, but Ken
Mistook the glamp, an' left the book to Hen.
She takes it up, an' turns it o'er & o'er,
An' at trig Kenny lets the other glowr.
At last she says: “Ye dinna now come hame—”
Nor was she able mair to say for shame.
Ken says: “I'm not at my ain freedome now;
Nor think I lang for anything but you.
For Dick gees lessons to me ilka day,
An' I my questions now right well can say.
I scour the hills, the howms, the glens with care,
An' mony a bony burn and strype is there;
Bra lang green haughs by ilka burn & strype,
An' hazel-nute heughs, an' hawthorne berries rype;
Here in thick spots the ripe blae-berries grow,
The bralans there like very scarlet glow;
An' were ye there, the bliss wad be compleat,
An' ilka toil an' trouble wad be sweet.
But as it is, I maun mysell content,
To help to herd the gueeds upo' the bent.
For Dick's now stiff an' auld, an' gars me rin
An' had insides a'maist frae sin to sin.
An' tho' he be baith kind an' mair nor kind—
Lears me to read, an' sometimes write a line—
With the laird's bairns he me forbids to mird,
An' tells for that that I was sent to hird.
It's true indeed I dinna grudge the trade,
An' thinks that I had for the same been made.
We get our meal frae Lucky i' the glen,
184

That lives fu' snuggly wi' a butt an' ben;
Wi' earthen sunks a' round about the wa',
An' heather beds a' sett on end and bra.
She milks the ewes an' tents the same wi' care,
An' mony times gees me a hindbacks share.
I want for nought, 'cept that I see na you;
That's a' my want, an' I maun bear it now.
Anes ev'ry ouk we lat the gueeds wear down
To pike the braes just up aboon the town.
Coud you get leave that time your walk to take,
'Twou'd do me gueed, altho' we sud na speak.”
“Gin I can win,” says Henny, “dinna fear
But I mysell sud straiten to be there.
For I'm as fain of you, an' wad be glade
That ilk a day a sight of you I had.”
Just as they're thrang, wha louping comes but Peg?
An' Henny wisht, nae doubt, she'd broke her leg;
For she o'erheard part o' their serious crack,
And Henny fear'd that she wad prove her wrack.
For Peg was cunning, and the other fear'd
That she wad tell her mother what she heard.
Nor was poor Henny in her guesses wrang,
For clatt'ring Peg soon blabbed out their thrang.
The wyllie lady did na seem to mind,
Nor challeng'd Henny for her being kind;
And says it was no wonder, for that they
At hame had plaid together many a day;
That it nae fairly was, that they were fain
To crack together when they met again.
This laid Peg's tongue, & help't to hush the din
That by her clatter threaten'd to begin.
But still an eye the lady keeps on Hen,
And at her scoold, whene'er she spak of Ken;
Spake very slightly of the servant's state,
And swell'd the odds betwixt them & the great,
And said that gentles were for gentles made,
185

And servants but to servile stations bred;
Nae mair with them that gentles had to do
But take their wark, or at them skaul the brow
Whene'er they sloth'd their task, & let them ken
That they maun byde their butt, an' they their ben;
But says: “When we speak o' them, we maun ken
Tho' they be servants, yet that they are men.
We must na wrang them, but their wages pay,
And mind they bear the toil an' heat of day;
When we, whose luck is to abide within,
Do feed upon what they do work an' win.
An' since to us that providence is kind,
Wha works it for us we sud keep in mind;
But ay keep up the diff'rence heav'n has made,
Nor make them partners at our boord or bed.”
Henny, by now grown up in wyles an' years,
Right paukily her mother's lessons hears,
And says: “My bookie tells another tale,
And what's in print can surely never fail:
‘When Adam carded and when Eva span,
Inform me where were a' the gentles than.’”
“That's true, my bairn,” her mother saftly said;
“Fouk then were few, but after that they spread;
Some o' them rich, an' some o' them were poor,
The stronger sought the weaker to devour.
Some o' them wysse, and some o' them were fools,
An' to the strong the weaker were made tools.
Ilk ane was like another to o'ergang,
Nor was there way of righting o' their wrang.
So full was a' their way of cracks & flaws,
That they were forc'd to make what we call laws.
The wiser made them, & the rest obey'd,
Or if they fail'd, their skins were soundly paid.
Frae this, distinction 'mangst fouk began,
An' gear was paid unto the wisest man.
Of sick, when fouk began to widely spread,
Ilk tribe chese one, an' him their leader made.
Sae by degrees there grew baith great and sma,
186

An' all was held in order by the law.
The law forbade the great to wrang the poor,
Or it wad make the best o' them to stour.
Thus when of law ilk ane saw the intent,
All studied with their state to be content.
Sick as had wealth an' witt were counted great,
The poorest sort were of the other state.
But mony times amo' the poor were found
Some wyllie heads that did with witt abound.
Sick for their witt were parted frae their race,
An' 'mang the better sort obtain'd a place.
This gate at first the gentles gat their name,
And gin they blot it, grytly are to blame.”
“How blot it, mother? As I blott my book?
Or the hill-moss in spate defiles our brook?”
“Just sae, my bairn, the simile will hadd,
An' that you've anter'd on't I'm unko glad.
Your copie's clean ere ye lat fa' a blott,
But anes it fa'es, then ye hae slipt a knott.
Scraip what you like, it never sall be clean,
Nor be the thing again that it has been.
Sicklike, when gentles fa' in a mistake,
Or in their curpin sud there prove a crack,
That sair, wi' a' our art, will never heal,
But ay at ilka sae lang brake an' beal.
Sae we had best ay keep among our rank,
Lest for our name we only hae a blank.”
“But mother,” says she, “since ye do allow
Ane may be gotten 'mang the vulgar crew
That may be meet to fit a gentle place,
As weel for wit an' havins as for face,
When sick we chuse, we sud na be condemn'd,
Nor yet, as if we'd wrang'd our fame, be blam'd.”
“Ay, Henny, sick are only speckle birds,
An' aften times mista'en by giglet flirds
187

That eye vain fellows for their airy dress,
And on appearances lay a' their stress.”
“And gentles ay,” says Henny, “are not good,
Tho' they by blood may differ frae the crowd.
An' as unhappy we meith be with them
As with the crowd, that sett not up for fame.”
“That may be too,” her mother says, “but yet
They're less to wyte that hadd the even gate.
Wi' ane frae 'mang the crowd get we a byte,
Nane pities us, we hae oursells to wyte.
But if we're wrang, when we our equal take,
They hae na shame to bind upon our back.”
Whatever Henny thought, she said nae mair,
But as well sa she coud she smor'd her care.
But still a hanker had her Ken to see,
Albeit she own'd him under her degree.
'Twas love, not marriage, ran into her mind;
She sought, she meant no more but to be kind.
Sae stack trig Kenny's shape within her breast,
That ilka thought about him was a feast.
Now when this pair were come unto that pass
As to be raxed out to lad an' lass,
An' she a fair an' statly lady grown,
An' woo'rs dingdang frequenting now the town;
Tho' to their profers she gae nae consent,
Altho' they a' were come of high descent;
Yet 'mangst her suiters there keest up at last
A gallant squire of freely gentle cast,
Of sweet address, an' skill'd in courting art,
That well coud ettle Cupid's winning dart;
Sae frush, sae frank, that she coud scarce gainsay,
An' fouk were speaking o' her wedding day.
The news brake out, an' flew unto the glen,
An' pat an unko stammagast to Ken,
Who thinks: “I now maun try my utmost art
To see if I have room in Henny's heart.”
An' as frae Dick he learnt had to write,
He then sits down, an' to her thus can dite:
188

“Dear Mrs Henny, dowy is the knell
Has hit my ears, worse than a burial bell:
You're to be married now, I hear, on haste,
An' I'm quite banish'd frae your bony breast.
I'm nae your maik, I ken, but yet I thought
Ye wad na yield at first, piece ye were sought.
Bade ye unmarri'd, it some hopes wad gee,
An' frae the warst of fates preserve poor me.
But sud the dreary tidings whilk I fear,
That ye are gane, but ring upo' mine ear,
Then the first news sud blaw down frae the glen
Wad be the death of poor unhappy Ken,
That loo'd, it seems, what was not safe to do,
An' yet, it seems, maun die of love for you.”
This he folds up the best way that he mought,
And to his trusty Lucky saftly brought;
And says: “When ye gae down unto the Place—
Altho' ye need no be upon a chase—
But when ye gang, ye'll this bit paper gee
To Mrs Hen, but let no body see.”
The wyllie wife, nae doubt that smell'd a rat,
A proper season for her errand wat;
Yeed aff to get a new supply of meal,
Or sicklike things the lady us'd to deal,
Baith for her ain an' Ken the shepherd's buird,
That ay to them the fam'ly did afford.
When she comes there, the town is in a thrang,
An' gentles gaing out and in ding-dang.
Bess nicks her chance, to Henny's chamber trips,
An' fast into her hand the paper slips;
Then gaes her wa, an' waits about the Place
For things to which she well cud had her face.
When Bess yeed out, then Henny clos'd her door,
An' read her Kenny's letter o'er an' o'er.
She read and grat, said till hersell, “Wae's me
That Kenny sae in pain for me sud be!
How sad's my heart, that likes him like my life,
Yet have no hope to ever be his wife!
189

This waefu' chance of gentle blood, foul fa't!—
I wat I canna sair enough misca't—
Stands i' the gate. I maunna quyte my rank,
Or I among my kin be but a blank.
My parents, I confess, maun be obey'd,
Tho' I hae nature's right upo' my side.
To marry gentles none can me compell;
Yet sure I am they cannot force mysell
To marry 'gainst mysell, tho' I confess
My will they may keep frae me ne'r the less.”
Nail'd down by the bewitching pow'r of love
Some time she sat, nor had she pow'r to move.
At last she reads her letter o'er again,
Then up, an' looks for paper, ink and pen.
And now at last her first love letter writes,
And love himsell the pleasing subject dites;
An' sae begins: “Alas! my honest Ken,
For me first banish'd to the wilsome glen;
An' now, wae's me! thro' the mistake of fame,
Made to believe I've quite forgot your name.
That's nae the case, dear Ken. My parents may
Prevent of you and me the happy day,
And I believe they shall; but mortal man
From loving of you ne'er prevent me can.
That is a thing I think within my pow'r,
Tho' I sud never get my paramour;
No man of me sall ever get consent,
Altho' the getting you they may prevent.
Love on, and sae sall I, an' never fear
You'll of my marriage with another hear.
Love wou'd, but time forbids me to say mair.
So live at ease, and dinna foster care.”
This she falds up, an' waits a canny kyle;
Gees't unto Bess, wi' something and a smile.
Bess takes't, an' hameward makes unto the glen,
An' at the sheal, wha meets her there but Ken?
190

The note she gees him fast, but naething said.
Unto a bield as fast the shepherd sled;
An' read, an' kist, an' grat, an' read again,
An' says: “My blessing o' my bonny Hen,
That's been sae good as write to me this line!
Indeed, dear Mrs Hen, it's mair nor kind.
An' will ye for my sake not marry nane?
Nor I, atweel, except yoursell alane.”
And to himsell he farther gladly says:
“An' wad she chuse a shepherd frae the braes,
An' leave the gentlemen of hy renown
I hear are daily flocking to the town?
God's blessing light upon her face, an' mine!
As far's I can, upon't she sall na tyne.
Sick kindness on the likes of me's ill wair'd.
But for her sake, o gin I were a laird!
Had I my thousands coming in, yet nane
Wad I think wordy o't but her alane.
That's easie said, she unto me meith say,
As sick a chance I'm never like to hae.
But I'll do more: sall never woman kind
Except hersell, get harb'ry in my mind.
Tho' I sud live till me a midge sud fell,
This to the world I'm vowable to tell.”
Thus happy, thus resolv'd, the shephered gaes
And tents his thriving flock upon the braes.
For Dick's now dead a towmont an' a day,
An' at whase death young Kenneth was right wae;
For he had been the best sight e'er he saw,
An' miss'd him sair, now whan he was awa'.
Before, he had him 'tweesh him an' the wind,
When any faults the laird or lady found.
But now the charge lies a' upon himsell,
An' to tell truth, he mannag'd it fu' well.
Well throove the flock, an' well increas'd the store,
An' ev'ry year grew mair by many a score.
And with his laird he did at last engage
To have a lamb of twenty for his wage;
191

Half wedder, and half ew, he gat his wyle,
An' he grew rich within a litle while.
Soon ev'ry year he had a cast to sell,
An' laid up siller mair nor tongue can tell.
The happy herd now brooks an easy mind,
'Cause to her shepherd Henny proves so kind;
Takes out his chanter on the sunny braes,
An' gars the rocks rebound his mirthfu' lays;
Nae music in his ears like Henny rings,
And unto very nathings sings down kings;
While Henny's ay the burthen o' his sang,
And ever keeps his mind frae thinking lang.
Weet, cald, and jurging feet he never minds,
Snow, sleet, slush, frost, green grow, or piping winds,
A' weather's just alike upo' the bent,
An' how the warld gaes, he's ay content.
As lang's he thinks his Henny is his ain,
Naething can gae against him o' the plain.
But fickle fortune is not ay the same;
She pleasure takes to play her tott'ring game.
Poor honest Kenneth now maun tidings hear
That louder knell than thunder on his ear.
His mirth was marr'd by a mischancy cast,
When he had thought it wou'd for ever last:
Ae day young Rory, now too grown a man,
Into his sister's chamber rambling ran.
She's reading at a paper, an' what's this,
Think ye, but Kenneth's line to her, alas!
Nae ill was in his mind, but yet a claught
At it he loot, an' frae her fingers caught.
Poor Henny at it loot a hasty glamp,
An' roov't in twa, as it was weak an' damp.
Aff he scours wi' his ha'f, but will-a-day!
E'en that same ha'f o'er muckle had to say.
It had to say—what needs there ony mair?—
What brake her peace, an' bred her muckle care.
Aff to his mother he the paper bears,
192

And leaves poor Henny bludder'd o'er wi' tears;
And says: “What think ye have I gotten now?
'Tis nae for noth that Henny winna woo.
She's other ways ta'en up—look, read ye here;
Her bony spark's nae o' the wale of gear.
Ken's thrang an' hers ye'll find's nae done awa',
Tho' frae the town ye him forherded ca'.”
The mother said what for the time was best,
An' unto silence rattling Rory prest;
Said she that matter mannage wad hersell,
And pray'd he meith it not to others tell.
But as the proverb says, what we forbid
Is what, we may resolve, will not be hid.
An' sae it far'd wi' this. Rash Rory's tongue
Soon blabbed a' that story out ere lang.
The dowy news even unto Kenny flew,
An' dreary damps o'er all his comforts drew.
What shall he do? He's driv'n to dark dispair;
His breast he bett, an' roove out at his hair.
His chanter he with indignation takes,
An' in a fit all into pieces breakes—
His chanter, that upon the sunny braes
Had plaid him many sweet & mirthful lays.
His crook against a rugged rock he drew,
Till far and wide it into splinters flew.
Then sat he down beneath this birn of wae,
An' dool'd an' mourn'd, an' thus can sadly say:
“An' can the warld now our secret tell?
My heart before got never sick a knell.
How will they guide my bonny Henny now?
Her peace is gane as well as mine, I trow.
For me, I dinna care tho' I were dead,
Nor ever frae this hillock rais'd my head;
But for poor her, my heart is like to bleed
I cannot help her at this time of need.
O all ye pow'rs that pity honest love,
To pity her her angry mother move!
She'll neither be, I ken, to had nor bind,
193

But wi' her tongue misuse her out an' in.
Support poor Henny in her suff'ring hour,
An' some kind comfort in her bosome pour!
O gee her patience, help her now to bear
This sad, this dowy, weighty birn of care!
May a' my patience, a' my pity be
This day, dear Henny, helpful unto thee!
I dinna farther crave your honest love,
But biddable unto your parents prove;
Take some young gentle, an' good mat he be!
And think nae mair, my bonny Hen, on me.
For me, I soon sall take a rackless race,
An' gae where I had never kend a face;
An' sall be happy, cou'd I anes but ken
That ye are free frae care, my lovely Hen.
But yet some glimpse of hope blinks in my breast:
Your mother anes will hear you, at the least.
Tell her, if ever love was worth the name,
Sure yours an' mine deserves the least of blame;
When nae wrang thoughts coud in our bosoms be,
My heart was fixt on you an' yours on me.
How it began sure nane of us can tell.
So then to you she never can be fell.
My honest tutor Dick, 'tis very true,
Tauld me with gentles I had nought to do.
But what ken I of that distinction? When
Love linked us together with his chain,
And when it once was fixed in our heart,
And we baith happy with the tender smart,
As little cud we then forbear to love
As we coud lett it, at the first, to move.
I think I'm even speaking unto you,
And yet I ken ye dinna hear me now;
But if you did, I wot that yet once more
Our hearts wad be as warm's they were before.
But why sud I upon this subject dwell?
It is but heaping sorrow on mysell.
194

For while I think that ye your sorrow dree,
No peace on earth can ever be to me.
But gang I maun awa', 'cause for your sake
I dread your foulks will seek my life to take.
An' that, I ken, wad be mair pain to you,
Sae that 'tis better I prevent it now.
But whan I'm gane, my heart will still remain.
O gin it could but ease you o' your pain!
Wi' pleasure I the warld wide wad range,
Tho' ilka day I sud my quarters change.
If I have any love of life, 'twill be
To think you're sometime thinking upon me.
This I in write shall leave with honest Bess,
To succour you beneath your sad distress.
But ere it comes, I surely will be gane,
So after it you are to look for nane.
Not but my will is good, but canna see
How word to you coud mair transported be.
Farewell, dear Mrs Henny, lang farewell!
If ever we shall meet no tongue can tell.”
An' now poor Ken is on his travels keen.
But first he ranks his herdshal o' the green;
Counts ev'ry soul, and tightly sets them down,
That all in ane made out a number round.
To keep them right wi' might an' main he stroove,
An' wond'rously beneath his hand they throove.
Then says to Bess: “The morn I gang awa',
An' a' my ain poor beasts maun wi' me ca',
Where I can best I will of them dispose,
Tho' I the hauf sud on the other lose.
Neist day, whan I am gane, ye will gae down,
An' this bit note ye'll carry to the town;
Gee to the lady, this will lat her ken
Her ilka sort o' sheep into the glen.
Tho' I to herd them never sud come back,
At my poor hand she sanna tyne a plack.
195

Four ewes, good honest Bess, I've left to you;
In a short time they may be worth a cow.
This letter, too, you'll to Miss Henny gee—
The last, I reed, she'll ever get frae me.
But upon haste wi' it ye needna be.
Well mat ye thram! For happy I hae been
These many summers now upon the green.”
At this Bess' heart is like to brake in twa;
An' says: “Wae's me! an' are ye gaing awa'?
Well maat ye gang, an' may ye ever hae
Your friends before you ilka gate ye gae!
But yet, o Kenny! I would think your case
Not hauf so ill's it looks you i' the face.
Ye yet meith bide some days, untill ye see
Gin laird or lady at you angry be.
'Twill soon be kend, an' gin I chance to hear
Afore yoursell, I'll tell, ye needna fear.
Nae doubt, they'll Mistris Henny's pulses try,
An' gin to them she ilka thing deny,
They'll likelylike lie dark, for afttimes we
Things latten alane to dwindle to naething see.
Attour they hae her ever i' their pow'r,
Nor frae their sight can she be hauf an hour.
Sae what hae they to fear? The worst that they
'Bout a' your cushelmushel hae to say,
That ilk to ilk a lasting favour had,
But canna tell how at the first it bred.
That now the dinn o' it wad soon dill down,
An' but a story at the last be found.”
“That's easie said,” says Ken, “but yet when I
Beneath the sad an' heavy birthen ly,
'Tis quite another story, for naething me—
—But taking of my heels—from it can free.
That's my design, sae arguments are vain,
An' that I maun gang aff as light is plain.”
196

Now Ken had grown conceity in his claise,
Nor coud the common country fashion please,
But something by the by 't boot be his hue:
Fine colour, red, sea-green an' double blue,
Wi' skyring lumbs thro' a trig tartan ran
Of his ain wool, that honest Bessy span.
A good clashbardy, too, he boot to hae;
A durk, a pistol, an' sick things as thae;
A steethed belt, wi' brasen knaps as thick
As ane coud just beside the other stick.
All these, when on, did on the other clash,
And baith at kirk and market keest a dash.
A tight four quarters to the boot was he,
His maik ye hardly ony gate cud see.
Sae drest and feat he was ae bony morn,
An' from a hillock blew his touting horn;
Conven'd his flock, an' left them o' the plain,
An' then before him ca'd awa' his ain,
But just's he stood, he naething took awa',
An' a' the rest loot wi' auld Bessy fa',
Wha mony a blessing pray'd, an' wiss'd that he
Might be a laird, afore that he sud die.
When he is gane & gone, then honest Bess
With the note left her, traddles to the Place;
An' as good Ken had geen her in command,
Right dowielike slips't i' the ladie's hand.
“An' what means this?” to her the lady says.
“Your sheep's account,” quo Bess, “upo' the braes.”
“I see it is,” she says, “and it's nae sma.
But what need was there sick account to shaw?”
Bess answer maks: “Alas! poor Kenny's gane,
An' his ain beasts along wi' him has ta'en.
For him I fear anither herd ye'll need,
For he'll come never back again, I read.”
“Gae he nae reason for this hasty step?”
“Nane that I ken, except the country claip,”
Said Bess, “'bout Mrs Henny an' himsell.
Nor gin that be the thing I canna tell.
197

Ae thing, I'm sure, to a' that kent him's kent:
No better lad e'er herded o' the bent.”
“That he was sae I canna well deny,
But wiss, whan he came in, he had gane by.
Poor Henny for him had some liking ta'en;
But now I hope 'twill fa', as he is gane.
Left he with you for her nae new commands?
I doubt their messages came thro' your hands.”
“Since Mrs Henny's scash wi' the young laird,
I fear that he frae sick commands was skair'd.
Nae hopes has now, whatever he may have had,
He ever sud be partner o' her bed.
I heard him say, howe'er wi' him it fair'd,
He wisst that she were marry'd wi' a laird.
An' I think haleumly he's ta'en the road
That in her gate he may not be a clod.
He'll push his fortune, unko faces may
Frae out his mind sick fancies wear away.
Sweet Mrs Henny'll join some gentle hand—
Well is she worth the foremost o' the land.”
An' tho' poor Henny's yet into the mist,
Nor that her lad was aff an' left her, wist;
Yet she wi' grief was hard enough bestead,
Frae anes she fund that their intrigue was spread.
'Tis true her mother yet kept on her mask,
Nor for the story had her ta'en to task;
Yet ilka minute she expects the worst,
An' is wi' neaty grief just like to burst.
In this sad plight whan eight lang days are gane,
Than which mair dowy she had never nane,
Her mother says: “What is the matter now,
That sorrow sains sae runkles o' your brow?
If't be for Ken, 'tis time to lay't aside,
When to a laird ye soon can be a bride.
For him, he's aff baith bag and baggage gaen,
An' left his herdshal on the plain alane.
Ne'er mind him mair, he's casten his heels at you,
Sae ye at him the like may safely do,
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E'en put the case he meith your equal be;
An' as he's not, ye're mair nor doubly free.”
“Gane! gane! an' is he gane? Then joy be wi'm!
He has my heart, tho' I sud never see him,
Nor likely will I,” Henny sobbing says.
“Aff now is gane the pow of a' the braes.
But since ill fortune does our persons part,
She has nae pow'r, I hope, upon our heart.
In spite of fate, I'll like him till I die,
An' I'm persuaded he thinks sae to me.
It is a virtue, surely, to be true,
However mean it may appear to you.
You may indeed cast meanness up to me,
That coud wi' ane beneath my rank be free;
But at that time no odds of rank I knew,
And gin I ony blame, it sud be you,
Wi' sick that loot me pass my early time,
An' now finds faut, as gin the wyte was mine.
But letting you be right, an' me be wrang,
When with poor barefoot Kenneth I grew thrang,
Afore I wist gin I the like sud do,
I dare na say that I repent it now.
But tho', dear mother, I be thus inclin'd.
It comes not frae nae stubbornness of mind.
I ken that I my parents sud obey,
An' without asking questions comply,
In things within my pow'r; but gin aboon't,
I'm nae to blame altho' I hae not done't.
For I nae mair can cease of Ken to think
Than my eye-lids can now forbear to wink.
So let the braest, gentlest wooer come,
Within my heart for him there is nae room.
Ken has possest it a', an' let him hae't,
An' binna angry at me when I say't.
I hae nae hopes I'll ever be his wife,
But I'll contented lead a single life.
On you nor me this winna fix a stain,
An' I'll for ane frae a' mankind refrain.”
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Her mother says: “I'll, Henny, let you be.
'Tis time alane that can your bosome free.
You'll quyte your chamber, & converse wi' fouk,
Or they'll had out ye're grown a sensless gouk;
Keep company, and let na them conclude
Your father's herd sud ever you delude.
Sae let me see that ye my bidding do,
An' skail the clouds that's gather'd o' your brow.
Good company unto this house resorts,
That can divert you wi' their harmless sports.
An' nane but sick, you ken, are welcome here,
An' for yoursell are ever fier for fier.
To gentle havins sick are ever bred,
An' frae a' country clownish fessons freed.
An' as I said afore, sae say I now—
Sick are the only company for you.
Good books ye hae, an' sall, as aft's ye need;
On them ye may at proper seasons read.
But not the books for the daft stage design'd;
Sick rather poison than instruct the mind.
Young fouks but now o'er mony read o' thae,
Whilk to their virtue aften proves a fae.
We'll send for Cousin Peg. She has the art
A melancholly body to revert.
Wi' her, my child, ye can be frank an' free;
An' she, ye ken, a gueed advice can gee;
Wi' her ye can or work or read or play,
An' please yoursells the live-lang summer's day;
Nane dare to say 'tis ill done that ye do.
Sae ken yoursell, an' do my bidding now,
An' in a clap ye's hae a new silk gown,
Piece I for it sud send to London-town.
Nae thing ye's want that can be gueed or bra,
If ye frae country thoughts an' fessons fa'.
200

Some mithers on you wad hae fa'en right foul,
An' never looked o' you butt a scoul;
But I that kens that Kenny's thrang & yours
Grew when ye cud do nought but gather flours,
With pity treat you, hoping reason shall
You from this foolish childish thought recall.
Sae brisk you up, wi' pains prin on youre claise,
That fouk may think your mind is now at ease.
Wi' company be couthy, frank an' free,
An' take a harmless share of cheefu' glee.
An' when young gentlemen comes to the town,
Be sure ye trig yoursell i' your best gown.
I'm far frae bidding you gae daft or light,
But nae to gae mair hobby than ye might.
When ye get offers made you by the men,
Gee civil talk, nor treat then wi' disdain.
'Twill gee fouk wordy sentiments of you,
Tho' to their suits ye sud na chance to bow.
An' tho' I wish't, an' wish't wi' a' my heart
You wou'd frae mean an' vulgar thoughts depart,
Yet far am I from thinking you sud take;
This or that laird to you that love sud make;
Unless his person an' his manners please
As well's the shape an' glitter o' his claise.
Yet by my saying sae I dinna mean
That fouk sud take a frack an' marry nane.
Let reason guide your choice, an' this may prove
A good foundation for a lasting love.
Be wise, my bairn, an' mind a mother says't,
'Tis a virtue this, an' virtue'l ay be prais't.”
At this poor Henny's calm as ony saint,
An' this her mither takes for half a grant;
Gaes aff contented, leaving Hen alane,
That to hersell thus made her heavy main:
“My mither's gane, an' thinks she's win the day,
'Cause to her lessons I did not say nay.
Nor did it set me; but I'm hamper'd sair,
An' see nae chance for me but endless care.
201

She has indeed the right end o' the string,
When neuter fouk sit judges o' the thing;
But when I it as my ain story tell,
'Tis aboon my pow'r to gee't against mysell.
An' yet I ken few will my choice approve,
'Cept sick as are, as I am, blind in love.
These whae or hear or see me sae beset
Will, maybe, to me be a tear in debt.
An' mair, I fear, will say I've plaid the fool,
That took my lesson at so poor a school.
Well, I maun e'en be doing; time maun try
My rakless race, and read my destiny.
But something whispers to me i' my ear
As honesty that nothing is so dear.
So I resolve, tho' fouk my choice may blame,
They shallna me of fickleness condemn.
Poor Kenny's maybe hard enough bestead,
And to a mischief forc'd to run his head,
An' a' for me. An' shall I not at least
For him unpoison'd keep his lippn'd feast,
Tho' he thereof sud never chance to taste?
'Tis a' I can do for him. This I'll do,
Tho' me the best in Murryland sud woo.”
In a few days auld Bessy comes again
About her rural charge down frae the glen;
An' with her brings poor Kenny's last propine,
An' gees to Henny as she's gaing to dine.
Sae wyllily the wyllie wife behav'd
That not an eye the canny hint perceiv'd.
Poor Henny's dinner yeed but bauchly down,
Piece she that day had on a Sunday's gown,
To please her mother, tho' her tender heart
Wi' grief was wrung as wi' a poison'd dart,
To think what Kenny for her sake meith dree,
Or in what dowie plight or hardships be.
But as soon as the dinner's past an' gane,
She slips awa', in pain to be her lane,
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That she meith ken what Bessie's packet said,
Or gin it ony glimpse of comfort had.
Out thro' the trees she scours wi' a' her might,
An' in a glent she's safe an' out o' sight;
Then reads an' finds it's Kenny's last farewell
He left for her afore he took his heels.
Now Cousin Peg wi' her some days had been,
An' kend her wonted haunts out thro' the green.
Her in a glent the wyllie cummer mist,
An' in a clap was on her e'er she wist.
Now Henny's at her reading unko thrang;
Peg laughing says, “Is that a bra new sang?”
“The dowiest sang that ever yet I read
For poor unhappy me,” she answer made.
“I need no heal't frae you, that kens my pain.
This is the last farewell of bonny Ken.
An' this he left wi' Bess to me to gee,
An' she, poor woman, gae't right now to me.”
Sae down they sat aneath a birkin shade,
An' dowie Henny sigh'd an' grat an' read;
An' Peg of sympathy a tear loot fa',
Till baith their hearts were like to gang awa'.
At last Peg says: “Ye need no make sick main;
Maybe your Kenny will come back again.
When he has sell'd his sheep he'll maybe rue—
I'm sure he will, sae be his love be true.”
“Na, na,” says Henny, “Rorie's in a rage,
An' wad take Kenny's blood his wrath to swage.
He's proud an' clanish, an' can naething thole
That in his gentrice looks to bore a hole.
Poor Kenny better, maybe, is awa'.
I hope he yet upon his feet sall fa'.
He's good himsell, an' he'll ay kindness won,
Tho' fortune sud him force to take the gun.
'Tis born o' me sair he'll take that shift,
As a' his beasts yeed wi' him in a drift—
A sign to me he'll never come again,
Or ever tent a beast upo' the plain.
203

Wi' guns an' swords he ever had a fike,
An' that he'll wyre tham now is mair nor like.
Attour, he is so likely and so feat,
That they'd gee goud to get him i' the net.
An' tho' he had na chanc'd to gang awa',
Nae hope there was he to my cast wad fa';
For a'thing was against me: he was mean,
His best pretence to herd upo' the green;
I gentle-born, an' friends wad ne'er consent
That I sud tak a shepherd aff the bent.
He'll get his luck—I wiss it may be gueed—
An' ride as high as ever the king's steed.
For me, altho' he wis't I had a laird,
I's never, for his cause, wi' ane be pair'd.
'Tis a' for him is i' my pow'r to do,
An' whilk, poor man, I reckon is his due.
We're nae the first, an' may be nae the last
That has for other a' the warld past.”
“True, true's that tale, a tale o'er true indeed!
The saying of it makes my heart to bleed.
Ye're nae the first, I fear, nor yet the last;
I've got a plaid of that same very cast:
There's ane I like, an' he, I ken, likes me,
An' neither o's to own it dare be free.
For hope that we sud e'er thegither gae
Is out o' sight an' very far away.”
Then says sweet Henny: “Ye my story ken,
An' wha I've fixt to be my choice of men,
Altho' nae hopes I hae he'll e'er be mine,
Unless I wad my parents' blessing tyne,
Whilk I am laith to do, altho' I may
Indeed ne'er come to win it in their way.
Whae is this lad has got of you the start,
An' frae the gentle fouks scor'd by your heart?”
“Ay, that's the question that nae living knew
To this good hour, but I sall tell't to you,”
Says forward Peg; “a lad whase hair's like silk,
An' his clean fingers just as white's the milk,
204

Tho' he himsell is but a poor man's son,
But tight and handsome, an' his name's Mess John.
Well can he lear us a' to read an' write,
An' in book lair of ilka sort perfyte.
At the boord end he is allow'd a place,
At ilka meal stands up an' says the grace.
But 'boon them a' he kindness kythes to me,
But wyles well on that him nae bodie see.
He led my hand, when I to write began,
An' dos't, I'm sure, as well as ony man.
His hand is couthy, an' his voice is sweet,
An' a' his language perfectly discreet.
Gryte pity were't he were na gentle born,
Or that the want of it shou'd be a scorn.
Nae better lad or hat or cape puts on
In a' my kenning than our ain Mess John.
But wae's me! Now he's gaing far awa'
To pouss his fortune in America.
For there, he says, fouks casten o'er again,
An' come out o' the caumse right gentlemen;
That fan he's casten, he'll again come hame,
An' marry me, as sure's a dream's a dream;
That I may lippen till him haleumlie.
But sair I dread the dangers of the sea,
An' that my wisses never sall be crown'd,
But hear at last that he is dead or drown'd.”
Quoth Henny, “Cousin Peg, I've heard your tale,
An' ye, nae doubt, conclude it tells for hail.
But I about it do not want my fears,
Tho' for my ain I had, an' yet hae tears.
Fouk that's soon ta'en have aftimes cause to rue,
An' sick I fear may be the case wi' you.
Your fond Mess John but makes a feint to gae;
But does na wiss ye wad believe him sae,
But in gryte earnest take whate'er he says.
Sick tales as that are litle o' their ways.
They're ay ta'en up in reading tales of love,
An' at the wooing trade bra masters prove;
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But are not ay to ride the water on,
And sick a sliddery beast may be Mess John.
Their sleeket tongues gar fouk think ae thing's twa,
An' where 't's nae biting, leaves fouk aft to cla.
I'd sooner trow a lad that hadds the plough,
That 'bout his likings makes na sick a sough,
Than sick slim sparks that i' your face can smile
Till they out o' your sense shall you beguile.
An' binna angry that I am sae free,
For out o' gueed to you it comes frae me.”
Now Kenny's gane unto some far-aff fair,
There to put aff an' toom his hand o' gear;
Whilk soon he did, & gat his cash in hand,
Nor mickle did on the prig-penny stand.
As thus he's free, and glow'ring him about,
Of fresh recruits he meets a merry rout,
Led by a sturdy serg'ant trim'd wi' lace,
Quite clean, an' calling wi' a winning grace.
Then handsome Kenny spying thro' the thrang,
He is up with him in a very bang.
With all the dextrous art that cunning can,
He claps his shouder, saying, “Here's my man!
Come, come along, my lad, here's gold in hand.
Sick lads as you do honour to command.
With men like you, our king may hadd his ain,
An' well bestow'd on you may think your gain.”
Poor willing Kenny was na ill to court,
But ere the serg'ant bad, was ready for't;
Accepts the goud, and joins the raw recruits;
An' makes a swagger o' the market streets.
He's now resolv'd this way his chance to take,
And any risk to run for Henny's sake;
An' frae the first down sets it for a rule
Never by foolish pranks to play the fool;
Persuaded that a soldier on the road
As well's a priest at home might serve his God.
For Dick's advice, with which he first began,
Had not yet left him now when grown a man.
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