 | Songs and poems(1866) |  |
HARVEST; OR THE BASHFUL SHEPHERD.
A PASTORAL.
When welcome rain the weary reapers drove
Beneath the shelter of a neighbouring grove;
Robin, a love-sick swain, lagg'd far behind,
Nor seem'd the weight of falling showers to mind;
A distant solitary shade he sought,
And thus disclos'd the troubles of his thought.
Beneath the shelter of a neighbouring grove;
Robin, a love-sick swain, lagg'd far behind,
Nor seem'd the weight of falling showers to mind;
A distant solitary shade he sought,
And thus disclos'd the troubles of his thought.
Ay, ay, thur drops may cool my out-side heat;
Thur caller blasts may wear the boiling sweat;
But my hot bluid, my heart aw in a broil,
Nor caller blasts can wear, nor drops can cool.
Thur caller blasts may wear the boiling sweat;
But my hot bluid, my heart aw in a broil,
Nor caller blasts can wear, nor drops can cool.
Here, here it was (a wae light on the pleace)
That first I gat a gliff o' Betty's feace:
Blythe on this trod the smurker tripp'd, and theer
At the deale-head unluckily we shear:
Heedless I glym'd, nor could my een command,
Till gash the sickle went into my hand:
Down hell'd the bluid; the shearers aw brast out
In sweels of laughter; Betty luik'd about;
Reed grew my fingers, reeder far my feace:
What cou'd I do in sec a despart kease?
That first I gat a gliff o' Betty's feace:
Blythe on this trod the smurker tripp'd, and theer
At the deale-head unluckily we shear:
Heedless I glym'd, nor could my een command,
Till gash the sickle went into my hand:
Down hell'd the bluid; the shearers aw brast out
In sweels of laughter; Betty luik'd about;
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What cou'd I do in sec a despart kease?
Away I sleeng'd, to granny meade my mean;
My granny, (God be with her, now she's geane,)
Skilfu' the gushing bluid wi' cockwebs staid;
Then on the sair an healing plaister laid;
The healing plaister eas'd the painful sair,
The scar indeed remains, but naething mair.
My granny, (God be with her, now she's geane,)
Skilfu' the gushing bluid wi' cockwebs staid;
Then on the sair an healing plaister laid;
The healing plaister eas'd the painful sair,
The scar indeed remains, but naething mair.
Not sae that other wound, that inward smart,
My granny cou'd not cure a bleeding heart;
I've bworn the bitter torment three lang year,
And aw my life-time mun be sworc'd to bear,
'Less Betty will a kind physician pruive;
For nin but she has skill to med'cine luive.
But how should honest Betty give relief?
Betty's a perfect stranger to my grief:
Oft I've resolved my ailment to explain;
Oft I've resolved, indeed—but all in vain.
My granny cou'd not cure a bleeding heart;
I've bworn the bitter torment three lang year,
And aw my life-time mun be sworc'd to bear,
'Less Betty will a kind physician pruive;
For nin but she has skill to med'cine luive.
But how should honest Betty give relief?
Betty's a perfect stranger to my grief:
Oft I've resolved my ailment to explain;
Oft I've resolved, indeed—but all in vain.
Can I forget that night!—I never can!
When on the clean sweep'd hearth the spinnels ran.
The lasses drew their line wi' busy speed;
The lads as busy minded every thread;
When, sad! the line sae slender Betty drew,
Snap went the thread and down the spinnel flew.
To me it meade—the lads began to glope—
What cou'd I do? I mud, mud tak' it up;
I tuik it up, and (what gangs pleaguy hard)
E'en reached it back without the sweet reward.
When on the clean sweep'd hearth the spinnels ran.
The lasses drew their line wi' busy speed;
The lads as busy minded every thread;
When, sad! the line sae slender Betty drew,
Snap went the thread and down the spinnel flew.
To me it meade—the lads began to glope—
What cou'd I do? I mud, mud tak' it up;
I tuik it up, and (what gangs pleaguy hard)
E'en reached it back without the sweet reward.
O lasting stain! e'en yet the eye may treace
A guilty conscience in my blushing feace.
I fain wou'd wesh it out, but never can;
Still fair it bides like bluid of sackless man.
A guilty conscience in my blushing feace.
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Still fair it bides like bluid of sackless man.
Nought sae was Wully bashfu'—Wully spy'd
A pair of scissors at the lass's side;
Thar lowsed, he sleely dropped the spinnel down—
And what said Betty?—Betty struive to frown;
Up flew her hand to souse the cow'ring lad,
But ah, I thought it fell not down owre sad;
What follow'd I think mickle to repeat,
My teeth aw watter'd then, and watter yet.
A pair of scissors at the lass's side;
Thar lowsed, he sleely dropped the spinnel down—
And what said Betty?—Betty struive to frown;
Up flew her hand to souse the cow'ring lad,
But ah, I thought it fell not down owre sad;
What follow'd I think mickle to repeat,
My teeth aw watter'd then, and watter yet.
E'en weel is he that ever he was bworn!
He's free frae aw this bitterment and scworn:
What, mun I still be fash'd wi' straggling sheep,
Wi' far-fetch'd sighs, and things I said a-sleep;
Still shamefully left snafflen by mysell
And still, still dogg'd wi' the damn'd neame o' mell!—
He's free frae aw this bitterment and scworn:
What, mun I still be fash'd wi' straggling sheep,
Wi' far-fetch'd sighs, and things I said a-sleep;
Still shamefully left snafflen by mysell
And still, still dogg'd wi' the damn'd neame o' mell!—
Where's now the pith (this luive! the deuce ga wi't!)
The pith I show'd whene'er we struive, to beat;
When a lang lwonin' through the cworn I meade,
And bustlin' far behind, the lave survey'd.
The pith I show'd whene'er we struive, to beat;
When a lang lwonin' through the cworn I meade,
And bustlin' far behind, the lave survey'd.
Dear heart! that pith is geane and comes nae mair
Till Betty's kindness shall the loss repair;
And she's not like (how sud she?) to be kind,
Till I have freely spoken out my mind,
Till I have learn'd to feace the maiden clean,
Oil'd my slow tongue, and edg'd my sheepish een.
Till Betty's kindness shall the loss repair;
And she's not like (how sud she?) to be kind,
Till I have freely spoken out my mind,
Till I have learn'd to feace the maiden clean,
Oil'd my slow tongue, and edg'd my sheepish een.
A buik theer is—a buik—the neame—shem fa't
Some thing o' compliments I think they ca't:
That meakes a clownish lad a clever spark,
O hed I this! this buik wad do my wark;
And I's resolved to hav't whatever't cost:
My flute—for what's my flute if Betty's lost?
And if sae bonny a lass but be my bride,
I need not any comfort lait beside.
Some thing o' compliments I think they ca't:
That meakes a clownish lad a clever spark,
O hed I this! this buik wad do my wark;
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My flute—for what's my flute if Betty's lost?
And if sae bonny a lass but be my bride,
I need not any comfort lait beside.
Farewell my flute then yet or Carlile fair;
When to the stationer's I'll straight repair,
And boldly for thur compliments enquear;
Care I farding?—let the 'prentice jeer.
When to the stationer's I'll straight repair,
And boldly for thur compliments enquear;
Care I farding?—let the 'prentice jeer.
That duin, a handsome letter I'll indite,
Handsome as ever country lad did write;
A letter that shall tell her aw I feel,
And aw my wants without a blush reveal.
Handsome as ever country lad did write;
A letter that shall tell her aw I feel,
And aw my wants without a blush reveal.
But now the clouds brek off and sineways run;
Out frae his shelter lively luiks the sun,
Brave hearty blasts the droopin' barley dry,
The lads are gaun to shear—and sae maun I.
Out frae his shelter lively luiks the sun,
Brave hearty blasts the droopin' barley dry,
The lads are gaun to shear—and sae maun I.
| Songs and poems(1866) | |