The poetical works of William Nicholson :: :: University of Virginia Library

But by some how it soon cam' out,
And neibours talked o't roun' about,
And through the countra flew ding dang,
That thae twa wad be wed ere lang;
When some, nae doubt, through frien'ly views,
Tauld Sandy the unwelcome news,
Whilk sic a stoun sent to his breast
As some ha'e foun' but few exprest.

Ha'e no seen the towering pine
Spread out its arms to western wind,
Or bathe its bud in April dews,
While wild birds warbled through its boughs,

Till loud the northern blasts are borne,
Its foliage thinned, its branches torn?
Or ha'e ye seen the parent mild,
Bow o'er his sickly only child,
While silent griefs his bosom wound,
Unmindful of his friends around?

So stood he, like a statue dumb,
While croudin' thoughts his mind o'ercome;
Or, if a gleam stept cross his mind,
O days when she was true and kind,
Then wicked memory, ne'er asleep,
That brings the sour as weel's the sweet,
Brought to his mind anither matter—
How she had never sent the letter;
Or when he saw her e'er sinsyne,
To be their lanes did ne'er incline.

Now what though simmer roun' did bloom,
And breezes bore the saft perfume;
The birken bank or blushing flower
To please him now had lost their power;
The bird that charmed him in the spring,
Was now an idle chitterin' thing;
The burnie singin' owre the linn
But stunned and deaved him wi' its din:
His mind, retiring, shunned ilk joy,
Like sickly virgin, pale and coy:
Even a' the pleasures life could gie,
He viewed them wi' a jaundiced e'e.

To ease his mind frae doubts and dread,
And see gif a' was true was said,
At midnight hour, wi' grief opprest,
When thoughtless sauls were at their rest,

He stalked awa' through win' and rain,
And sought her door wi' meikle pain,
There at the window peepit in,
But a' was still and dark within:
His bane, his bliss, his a' was there;
His hopes were dull, his heart was sair;
Each wonted signal now he tries,
He chaps, he whispers, hoasts, and cries,
“Oh! are ye sleepin', Betty dear?”
Yet she lay still and doughtna hear;
But the unchancie curs within
Soon heard, and made a gowlin' din:
Till Kate waked, wi' an unco fike,
Cries “What's ado! the dogs gane gyte!
The Lord look till us and our wean,
For something surely ca'd her name;
Like a wild skreich borne on the wind,
And thrice it duntit on the grund:
Wi' sic a soun my lugs were stouned
The night afore Jean Tamson drowned—
John, did ye hear that voice sae deep?”
“Hout, I heard nought—lie still and sleep.”

His proud heart dunted back wi' grief,
To be thus cow'ring, like a thief,
A' chilled wi' cauld, and wet wi' rain,
For ane that felt nae for his pain.
His patience could nae langer thole;
He stapt twa lines through the key-hole.

The east win' blew, wi' hailstanes keen;
The light'ning gleamed the blasts between:
His road lay owre a dreary moor,
And by a castle's haunted tower,

Whar howlets screamed wi' eerie din,
Till vaults re-echoed a' within.
The spate spewed owre ilk burn and sleugh,
The tod screamt eldricht frae the cleugh,
Auld Dee spread wide his darkened waves,
And roared amang his rocky caves;
The moon and stars their light withdrew,
And hid their heads frae human view,
As daunderin' slow, he stalked his lane,
A' wearied, wan, and wae-begane,
His fondest fairy dreams were fled—
He sighed, and wished him wi' the dead.

O! thou dread, wily, wicked pest,
That laughs at poverty distrest,
Wham sighs and sorrows seldom move,
Art thou the gentle power of Love?
Mild is thy visage, gay and young,
Thy voice like fabled syren's song;
Soft is thy dalliance for an hour,
Ere yet equipt with all thy power:
But where with sceptred power thou reigns,
Thou bindst thy subjects up in chains,—
Chains stronger far than bands o' brass,
Then leaves them, raving in distress.

But when the ruddy streaks o' dawn
Had spread their light owre loch and lawn,
Up sprang the lark, on early wing,
And waked his field-mates round to sing;
When Kate, aye eident for their weal,
Gat up, and maist fell owre the wheel;
Her brats she on her bouk was drawin,
Afore the cock had ceased frae crawin';

Then to the hallan graips her way,
And looks the lift, to judge the day.

But, Sandy, ye were waur than mad,
To shoot your sonnets sic a road:
For, coming near the water-kit,
She sees some white thing at her fit,
As back she owre the threshold treadit—
But, praise be blest!—she couldna read it.
First thought it was a Johnnie Napier,
Then deemed it Betty's curling paper;
Flang't in the bole behint the lum,
Rakes down the coals, and lights her gun.
But breakfast done, and reading by,
The men to hill, and Kate to kye,
When Betty, busied at her wheel,
And lilting owre Lord Moira's reel,
Hard by the bole had ta'en her stan',
She sees the scrawl, and kens the han'.
The paper trembled as she read,
And aye her colour came and gaed:—
“Thou fause, though fairest o' thy kind,
That wounds my peace, and racks my mind,
Canst thou thy Sandy's heart disdain,
And slight his love for sordid gain;
That ance his fondest hopes would cheer,
And bless him with thy presence dear?
I fain wad seen thee by thysel',
To tak' the lang and last farewell,
Afore that waefu' knot be tied,
That bin's thee for anither's bride,

And leads thee, blushing in thy charms,
Into a happy rival's arms.
Far be't frae me, that I dissuade,
Or blame you for the choice you've made:
But had ye been content to gi'e
Your han' through life, and luck wi' me,
For you ilk care and cross I'd meet,
And toiled through winter's win' and weet;
Nor should it e'er been wardly gain,
I think, should cost you grief or pain.
But Fate sic favours doughtna deign;
Alas! ye never can be mine.
Adieu! and may ye happy be,
As e'er I thought to've been wi' thee.”

She wi' amazement on't did stare,
And wondered how it could come there;
Stunned and confused her senses seem,
Like ane new wakened frae a dream.

Note of the Galloway Bank, of which the late John Napier of Mollance was manager.