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 FORLORN WEAVER. |
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 | The poems and literary prose of Alexander Wilson |  |
THE FORLORN WEAVER.
On Cartha's fair banks, 'neath a tree,
That threw its broad branches around,
A weaver, most piteous to see,
Disconsolate lay on the ground:
He sighed for his Sally so fair,
Who off with another had gone,
And left the poor swain in despair,
At his cruel fortune to mourn.
That threw its broad branches around,
A weaver, most piteous to see,
Disconsolate lay on the ground:
He sighed for his Sally so fair,
Who off with another had gone,
And left the poor swain in despair,
At his cruel fortune to mourn.
329
“Ah, why should I live now!” he cried;
“Ah, what signifies life now to me!
When she, who should have been my bride,
Is married to Willie M'Gee:
I'm sure if the weather was hot,
I would end all my woes in the Linn;
So I'll e'en muse upon my sad lot,
Till ance that the summer comes in.
“Ah, what signifies life now to me!
When she, who should have been my bride,
Is married to Willie M'Gee:
I'm sure if the weather was hot,
I would end all my woes in the Linn;
So I'll e'en muse upon my sad lot,
Till ance that the summer comes in.
“Then down to the river I'll go,
With my pockets well filled with old leads;
And hurried on by my woe,
Soon lie a cold corse 'mang the reeds.
Then will the false fair one sad mourn
That her cruelty drove me that road;
And shed bitter tears, as I'm borne
Along to be laid 'neath the sod.”
With my pockets well filled with old leads;
And hurried on by my woe,
Soon lie a cold corse 'mang the reeds.
Then will the false fair one sad mourn
That her cruelty drove me that road;
And shed bitter tears, as I'm borne
Along to be laid 'neath the sod.”
So saying, he chanced to look round,
And, seeing his faither draw nigh,
He raiséd himself from the ground,
And heaved up a heart-bursting sigh,—
Saying, “Ah! he is bringing a stick
To drive me away to the shop;
So I'd better myself take off quick—
'Twould be folly here longer to stop.”
And, seeing his faither draw nigh,
He raiséd himself from the ground,
And heaved up a heart-bursting sigh,—
Saying, “Ah! he is bringing a stick
To drive me away to the shop;
So I'd better myself take off quick—
'Twould be folly here longer to stop.”
And then the poor swain said,—“Alas!”
And ran swiftly along Cartha's side;
When, stumbling among the long grass,
He fell headlong into the deep tide.
When, in accents of horror, he cried—
“Help! help! or I'll quickly be drowned!”
And hurrying down to the side
We drew the poor mortal on ground.
And ran swiftly along Cartha's side;
When, stumbling among the long grass,
He fell headlong into the deep tide.
When, in accents of horror, he cried—
“Help! help! or I'll quickly be drowned!”
And hurrying down to the side
We drew the poor mortal on ground.
330
Where—streaming with water—his head
He hung like a penitent thief;
And, shaking and shivering, thus said
In a voice of deep sorrow and grief—
“From this day, a promise I make
That I'll ne'er talk of drowning again;”
And then, giving his head a guid shake,
He scamperéd home o'er the plain.
He hung like a penitent thief;
And, shaking and shivering, thus said
In a voice of deep sorrow and grief—
“From this day, a promise I make
That I'll ne'er talk of drowning again;”
And then, giving his head a guid shake,
He scamperéd home o'er the plain.
While he was rantin' owre the weaver's woes,
Loud roars of laughter aftentimes arose:
An' when the waefu' tale was a' gane through,
An aul' man near me said “Think ye that's true?”
“I dinna ken, what do you think yoursel'?”
Said I, as down the screen before us fell.
“I think it's true,” quo' he, “for weel I min'
Something gae like it, that I saw langsyne.
A tailor chiel (I'll ca' him Willie Goose,
To tell his richt name wad be o' no use)
Had been sair slichted by a bonnie lass;
An' soon as e'er he heard o't, the puir ass
Baith said and swore that he wad tak' his life,
Either by hanging, drowning, or a knife.
Sae up he jumpit, on his bonnet pat,
An' hurried aff to a bit nice quait spat;
Whare, neath some sauchs, the water ran fu' deep,
The banks at that place being gayen steep;
An' jumpit in, thinkin' he was his lane,
But twa three o' us after him had gane;
Partly to see the fun, partly to save
The silly callan frae a watery grave.
Weel, soon as ever he had jumpit in
(I'm sure the water scarce had wat his skin),
He roared for help as loud as he could shout,
An' struggled hard's he could for to win out.
An' down we gaed, an' made him promise fair
That he wad do the like o' that nae mair;
An' then I helped to draw him out mysel'—
But isna that the ringin' o' the bell?
Sae I will tell you a' the rest again,—
We'll stop an' hearken, now, to Mr. Main.”
Loud roars of laughter aftentimes arose:
An' when the waefu' tale was a' gane through,
An aul' man near me said “Think ye that's true?”
“I dinna ken, what do you think yoursel'?”
Said I, as down the screen before us fell.
“I think it's true,” quo' he, “for weel I min'
Something gae like it, that I saw langsyne.
A tailor chiel (I'll ca' him Willie Goose,
To tell his richt name wad be o' no use)
Had been sair slichted by a bonnie lass;
An' soon as e'er he heard o't, the puir ass
Baith said and swore that he wad tak' his life,
Either by hanging, drowning, or a knife.
Sae up he jumpit, on his bonnet pat,
An' hurried aff to a bit nice quait spat;
Whare, neath some sauchs, the water ran fu' deep,
The banks at that place being gayen steep;
An' jumpit in, thinkin' he was his lane,
But twa three o' us after him had gane;
Partly to see the fun, partly to save
The silly callan frae a watery grave.
Weel, soon as ever he had jumpit in
(I'm sure the water scarce had wat his skin),
He roared for help as loud as he could shout,
An' struggled hard's he could for to win out.
331
That he wad do the like o' that nae mair;
An' then I helped to draw him out mysel'—
But isna that the ringin' o' the bell?
Sae I will tell you a' the rest again,—
We'll stop an' hearken, now, to Mr. Main.”
Weel, up the screen was haurlet in a crack,
An' in he cam' an' gied “Rabbie's Mistak'.”
An, Lord! sic laughin' ran frae wa' to wa',
To hear how Rabbie doitert through the snaw
Armed wi' a muckle gun, out ower his shouther,
An' loaded weel wi' pocks o' lead an' pouther;
An' how at last the puir unfort'nate tumphy,
Wi' a lead bullet, murdered his ain grumphy,—
The bodie being sae blin', he didna ken
His ain sow frae a maukin in the glen.
An' in he cam' an' gied “Rabbie's Mistak'.”
An, Lord! sic laughin' ran frae wa' to wa',
To hear how Rabbie doitert through the snaw
Armed wi' a muckle gun, out ower his shouther,
An' loaded weel wi' pocks o' lead an' pouther;
An' how at last the puir unfort'nate tumphy,
Wi' a lead bullet, murdered his ain grumphy,—
The bodie being sae blin', he didna ken
His ain sow frae a maukin in the glen.
Then Master Sprat got up again to sing
Some verses made on the return o' Spring;
(An' while he sang, he played upon the fiddle),
But had to stop ere he got to the middle;
For sic a hissing soon was raised at him—
I ne'er in a' my life heard sic a din.
Whistlin' through fingers, yells, an' awfu' squeels,
Maist made ane think they were a core o' deils
Let loose frae Hell, the laddie to torment,—
Sae aff the stage by them he soon was sent.
Some verses made on the return o' Spring;
(An' while he sang, he played upon the fiddle),
But had to stop ere he got to the middle;
For sic a hissing soon was raised at him—
I ne'er in a' my life heard sic a din.
Whistlin' through fingers, yells, an' awfu' squeels,
Maist made ane think they were a core o' deils
Let loose frae Hell, the laddie to torment,—
Sae aff the stage by them he soon was sent.
“A stage to let!” then out a fellow cried,
An' in cam' Mr. Main, wi' warlike stride;
As if he'd been some auld grim mail-clad knight,
Ready to join his faes in deadly fight;
An' makin' us a bow, began to gie
This waefu' tale o' woe an' cruelty:—
An' in cam' Mr. Main, wi' warlike stride;
As if he'd been some auld grim mail-clad knight,
Ready to join his faes in deadly fight;
An' makin' us a bow, began to gie
This waefu' tale o' woe an' cruelty:—
| The poems and literary prose of Alexander Wilson | |