The poems and literary prose of Alexander Wilson ... for the first time fully collected and compared with the original and early editions ... edited ... by the Rev. Alexander B. Grosart ... with portrait, illustrations, &c |
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THE LOSS OF THE PACK.
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 | The poems and literary prose of Alexander Wilson |  |
27
THE LOSS OF THE PACK.
A TRUE TALE.
(Recited in the character of a poor Pedlar.)
[_]
The following Tale was recited by the Author at the Pantheon, Edinburgh, in a debate on the Question,—“Whether is Disappointment in Love, or the Loss of Fortune, hardest to bear”?
'Bout-gates I hate, quo' girning Maggy Pringle;
Syne, harl'd Watty, greeting, thro the ingle.
Since this fell question seems sae lang to hing on,
In twa-three words I'll gie ye my opinion.
Syne, harl'd Watty, greeting, thro the ingle.
Since this fell question seems sae lang to hing on,
In twa-three words I'll gie ye my opinion.
I wha stand here, in this bare scoury coat,
Was ance a packman, wordy mony a groat;
I've carried packs as big's your meikle table,
I've scarted pats, and sleepet in a stable;
Sax pounds I wadna' for my pack ance ta'en,
And I could bauldly brag 'twas a' mine ain.
Was ance a packman, wordy mony a groat;
I've carried packs as big's your meikle table,
I've scarted pats, and sleepet in a stable;
Sax pounds I wadna' for my pack ance ta'en,
And I could bauldly brag 'twas a' mine ain.
Ay! thae were days indeed, that gart me hope,
Aeblins, thro' time, to warsle up a shop;
And as a wife aye in my noddle ran,
I kend my Kate wad grapple at me than.
O Kate was past compare! sic cheeks! sic een!
Sic smiling looks were never, never seen.
Dear, dear I lo'ed her, and whane'er we met,
Pleaded to have the bridal-day but set;
Stappèd her pouches fu' o' prins and laces,
And thought mysel' weel paid wi' twa three kisses;
Yet still she put it aff frae day to day,
And aften kindly in my lug wad say,
“Ae half year langer is nae unco stop,
We'll marry, then, and syne set up a shop.”
Aeblins, thro' time, to warsle up a shop;
And as a wife aye in my noddle ran,
I kend my Kate wad grapple at me than.
O Kate was past compare! sic cheeks! sic een!
Sic smiling looks were never, never seen.
Dear, dear I lo'ed her, and whane'er we met,
Pleaded to have the bridal-day but set;
Stappèd her pouches fu' o' prins and laces,
And thought mysel' weel paid wi' twa three kisses;
Yet still she put it aff frae day to day,
And aften kindly in my lug wad say,
“Ae half year langer is nae unco stop,
We'll marry, then, and syne set up a shop.”
O, Sir, but lasses' words are saft and fair,
They soothe our griefs, and banish ilka care;
Wha wadna toil to please the lass he lo'es?
A lover true minds this in a' he does.
Finding her mind was thus sae firmly bent,
And that I cou'dna get her to relent,
There was nought left, but quietly to resign,
To heeze my pack for ae lang hard campaign;
And as the Highlands was the place for meat,
I ventur'd there in spite of wind and weet.
They soothe our griefs, and banish ilka care;
Wha wadna toil to please the lass he lo'es?
A lover true minds this in a' he does.
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And that I cou'dna get her to relent,
There was nought left, but quietly to resign,
To heeze my pack for ae lang hard campaign;
And as the Highlands was the place for meat,
I ventur'd there in spite of wind and weet.
Cauld now the Winter blew, and deep the sna'
For three haill days incessantly did fa';
Far in a muir, amang the whirling drift,
Whar nought was seen but mountains and the lift;
I lost my road, and wander'd mony a mile,
Maist dead wi' hunger, cauld, and fright, and toil:
Thus wand'ring, east or west, I kend na' where,
My mind o'ercome wi' gloom and black despair;
Wi' a fell ringe, I plung'd at ance, forsooth,
Down thro' a wreath o' snaw, up to my mouth.
Clean o'er my head my precious wallet flew,
But whar it gaed, Lord kens! I never knew.
For three haill days incessantly did fa';
Far in a muir, amang the whirling drift,
Whar nought was seen but mountains and the lift;
I lost my road, and wander'd mony a mile,
Maist dead wi' hunger, cauld, and fright, and toil:
Thus wand'ring, east or west, I kend na' where,
My mind o'ercome wi' gloom and black despair;
Wi' a fell ringe, I plung'd at ance, forsooth,
Down thro' a wreath o' snaw, up to my mouth.
Clean o'er my head my precious wallet flew,
But whar it gaed, Lord kens! I never knew.
What great misfortunes are pour'd down on some!
I thought my fearfu' hinderen' was come;
Wi' grief and sorrow was my soul o'ercast,
Ilk breath I drew was like to be my last;
For aye the mair I warsl'd roun' and roun',
I fand mysel' aye stick the deeper down;
Till ance, at length, wi' a prodigious pull,
I drew my poor auld carcase frae the hole.
I thought my fearfu' hinderen' was come;
Wi' grief and sorrow was my soul o'ercast,
Ilk breath I drew was like to be my last;
For aye the mair I warsl'd roun' and roun',
I fand mysel' aye stick the deeper down;
Till ance, at length, wi' a prodigious pull,
I drew my poor auld carcase frae the hole.
Lang, lang I sought, and grapèd for my pack,
Till night and hunger forc'd me to come back;
For three lang hours I wander'd up and down,
Till chance, at last convey'd me to a town;
There, wi' a trembling hand, I wrote my Kate
A sad account of a' my luckless fate;
But bade her aye be kind, and no despair;—
Since life was left, I soon wad gather mair;
Wi' whilk, I hop'd, within a towmond's date,
To be at hame, and share it a' wi' Kate.
Till night and hunger forc'd me to come back;
For three lang hours I wander'd up and down,
Till chance, at last convey'd me to a town;
There, wi' a trembling hand, I wrote my Kate
A sad account of a' my luckless fate;
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Since life was left, I soon wad gather mair;
Wi' whilk, I hop'd, within a towmond's date,
To be at hame, and share it a' wi' Kate.
Fool that I was, how little did I think
That love would soon be lost for fa't o' clink.
The loss of fair won wealth, though hard to bear,
Afore this, ne'er had power to force a tear.
I trusted time wad bring things round again,
And Kate, dear Kate, wad then be a' mine ain;
Consol'd my mind, in hopes o' better luck,—
But, O! what sad reverse!—how thunderstruck!
When ae black day brought word frae Rab my brither,
That Kate was cried, and married on anither!
That love would soon be lost for fa't o' clink.
The loss of fair won wealth, though hard to bear,
Afore this, ne'er had power to force a tear.
I trusted time wad bring things round again,
And Kate, dear Kate, wad then be a' mine ain;
Consol'd my mind, in hopes o' better luck,—
But, O! what sad reverse!—how thunderstruck!
When ae black day brought word frae Rab my brither,
That Kate was cried, and married on anither!
Tho' a' my friends, and ilka comrade sweet,
At ance, had drappèd cauld dead at my feet;
Or, tho' I'd heard the Last Day's dreadfu' ca',
Nae deeper horror on my heart could fa';
I curs'd mysel', I curs'd my luckless fate,
I grat—and, sobbing, cried—O Kate! O Kate!
At ance, had drappèd cauld dead at my feet;
Or, tho' I'd heard the Last Day's dreadfu' ca',
Nae deeper horror on my heart could fa';
I curs'd mysel', I curs'd my luckless fate,
I grat—and, sobbing, cried—O Kate! O Kate!
Frae that day forth, I never mair did weel,
But drank, and ran headforemost to the deel;
My siller vanish'd, far frae hame I pin'd,
But Kate for ever ran across my mind;
In her were a' my hopes—these hopes were vain,
And now—I'll never see her like again.
But drank, and ran headforemost to the deel;
My siller vanish'd, far frae hame I pin'd,
But Kate for ever ran across my mind;
In her were a' my hopes—these hopes were vain,
And now—I'll never see her like again.
'Twas this, Sir President, that gart me start,
Wi' meikle grief and sorrow at my heart,
To gi'e my vote, frae sad experience, here,
That disappointed love is waur to bear
Ten thousand times, than loss o' warld's gear.
Wi' meikle grief and sorrow at my heart,
To gi'e my vote, frae sad experience, here,
That disappointed love is waur to bear
Ten thousand times, than loss o' warld's gear.
| The poems and literary prose of Alexander Wilson | |