Classic Poem

ON LUCKY WOOD

O Canongate! poor elritch hole,
What loss, what crosses dost thou thole!
London and death gar thee look drole,
And hing thy head:
Wow, but thou hast e'en a cauld coal
To blaw indeed.

Hear me, ye hills, and every glen,
Ilk craig, ilk cleugh, and hollow den,
And echo shrill, that a' may ken
The waefou thud
Be rackless Death, wha came unseen
To Lucky Wood.

She 's dead, o'er true, she 's dead and gane,
Left us and Willie burd alane.
To bleer and greet, to sob and mane,
And rugg our hair,
Because we 'll ne'er see her again
For ever mair.

She gae'd as fait as a new preen,
And kept her housie snod and been;
Her pewther glanc'd upo' your een
Like siller plate:
She was a donsie wife and clean,
Without debate.

It did ane good to see her stools,
Her boord, fire-side, and facing-tools;
Rax, chandlers, tangs, and fire-shools,
Basket wi' bread.
Poor facers now may chew pea-hools,
Since Lucky 's dead.

She ne'er gae in a lawin fause,
Nor stoups a' froath aboon the hause,
Nor kept dow'd tip within her waws,
But reaming swats;
She ne'er ran sour jute, because
It gees the batts.

She had the gate sae well to please,
With gratis beef, dry fish, or cheese,
Which kept our purses ay at ease,
And health in tift,
And lent her fresh nine gallon trees
A hearty lift.

She gae us oft hail legs o' lamb,
And did nae hain her mutton ham;
Then aye at Yule whene'er we came,
A braw goose-pye;
And was na that good belly-baum?
Nane dare deny.

The writer lads fow well may mind her,
Furthy was she, her luck design'd her
Their common mither, sure nane kinder
Ever brake bread;
She has na left her mak behind her,
But now she 's dead.

To the sma' hours we aft sat still,
Nick'd round our toasts and snishing-mill;
Good cakes we wanted ne'er at will,
The best of bread;
Which aften cost us mony a gill
To Aikenhead.

Could our saut tears like Clyde down rin,
And had we cheeks like Corra's Lin,
That a' the warld might hear the din
Rair frae ilk head;
She was the wale of a' her kin,
But now she 's dead.

O Lucky Wood! 'tis hard to bear
The loss; but oh! we maun forbear:
Yet sall thy memory be dear
While blooms a tree;
And after-ages' bairns will spear
'Bout thee and me.

EPITAPH .

Beneath this sod
Lies Lucky Wood,
Whom a' men might put faith in;
Wha was na sweer,
While she winn'd here,
To cram our wames for naithing.