Poems by Robert Nicoll Second edition: with numerous additions, and a memoir of the author |
 | I. |
 | II. |
THE PACKMAN. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
 | Poems by Robert Nicoll |  |
76
THE PACKMAN.
The fire we sat round on a cauld winter night—
Mysel' an' my dochters were spinnin'—
When in came the pedler, wi' ellwand in hand,
And the sweat frae the bodie was rinnin'.
Wi' beck an' wi' bow, and wi' “Goodness be here!”
He trampit in o'er to the ingle;
Syne open'd his pack fu' o' claes o' the best—
Wi' the sight o't my lugs they play'd tingle!
Mysel' an' my dochters were spinnin'—
When in came the pedler, wi' ellwand in hand,
And the sweat frae the bodie was rinnin'.
Wi' beck an' wi' bow, and wi' “Goodness be here!”
He trampit in o'er to the ingle;
Syne open'd his pack fu' o' claes o' the best—
Wi' the sight o't my lugs they play'd tingle!
Fu' o' jokin' an' cracks was the slee, pawky loun—
Weel kent he how braw things becam' folk;
An' my dochters he praised till we cou'dna but buy;
For he ca'd a' our neighbours but sham folk.
The deil break his shanks! he had plenty o' news,
And he clatter'd, and coost me wi' glamour,
Till quarters I promised to gi'e for a night,
And to make our bien but-house his chaumer.
Weel kent he how braw things becam' folk;
An' my dochters he praised till we cou'dna but buy;
For he ca'd a' our neighbours but sham folk.
The deil break his shanks! he had plenty o' news,
And he clatter'd, and coost me wi' glamour,
Till quarters I promised to gi'e for a night,
And to make our bien but-house his chaumer.
The morn I got up, as gudewife should do,—
To packmen there's naething to lippen,—
And soon followed after me Chirsty and Meg,
But Jean came na after them skippin'.
Where is she? why waits she? my youngest and best—
My ain Jean, my bonnie wee burdie—
Run awa? The light limmer—the deil break his banes—
Was the oily-tongued chapman, Tam Purdie!
To packmen there's naething to lippen,—
And soon followed after me Chirsty and Meg,
But Jean came na after them skippin'.
Where is she? why waits she? my youngest and best—
My ain Jean, my bonnie wee burdie—
Run awa? The light limmer—the deil break his banes—
Was the oily-tongued chapman, Tam Purdie!
| Poems by Robert Nicoll | |