Classic Poem

Now Sandy wass a clever chiel',
An could baith read an write fu' weel;
Had thoughts on things baith in an' out—
Kent mair than ony herd about:
At sic like wark as he profest,
Was never hin'most, if no best.
He ance a day could dance an' sing,
An' on the pipes play mony a spring:
But love, the bane o' high an' low,
That shoots the shepherd an' the beau,
Had hurt his peace, but men't his pen,
Altho' he ne'er let ony ken:
For Poverty, wi' iron claw,
That cauldrife rook that paiks us a,
Had chill'd his hopes an dimm'd his views:
He for a helpmate woo'd the muse.
He aft wou'd sing his lassie's praise,
Wi' a' his native burns an' braes,
An' link them up in rustic rhyme,
To answer his loud chaunter's time:
Nature, through a' her varied hue,
To him had ever charms anew:
Or sing, in rude an' bolder lays,
Some follies o' our modern days.
But where the social band was met,
He ne'er was seen to gloom or fret;
'Twas there he herry't pleasure's nest,
An' coup'd his cap up wi' the best,
Till, saft and clear, like morning dew,
The flights o' wit an' humour flew.
Or if a frien' did stan' in need
O' help by either word or deed,
He ne'er was sweer a han' to len',
An' deem'd it siller's noblest en':
That gart himsel' whiles be neglecked,
An' by the warldly disrespecked.

But Betty whiles wou'd guess a part,—
For love by looks can judge the heart.
They baith were bairns brought up the gither,
An' ay were unco pack wi' ither.
When at the school he took her han',
Or cleant her claes if she had faun,
An' wi' his plaid wou'd screen the show'r,
Ere love to plague had catch'd the pow'r.
When she to milk the ewes had gane,
He cam an' bure the leglen hame;
Or at the bught she ne'er thought lang,
While he tauld o'er some tale or sang;
An' lent her buiks to read at leisure,
Syne tauk'd them o'er wi' meikle pleasure,
Till words an' thoughts begat a kinship
O' ties mair tender far than frien'ship.
But Kate saw soon, wi' wylie e'e,
An' thought that sic things shoudna be;
Their bairn ta'en up wi' a herd laddie,
An' cootlan by their lanes already:
So she was now kept close within;
Her mither ay had tow to spin,
Till love an' learnin', a' gaed way.
At the niest term, ne'er ask'd to stay,
He hir'd him wi' a neibour man,
An saw but Betty now an' than,—
Sae it was a' but fair an' right,
That he shou'd see her hame that night.—
Jocosely spier'd whare she had been,
That she was gawn sae late at e'en;
An' how the priest had chanc'd to turn
Afore he saw her owre the burn?
She hid her face, an try'd to laugh,
An' said “she hadna been far aff.
Ye see that he has ta'en the rue,
But gif he's gane, I've gotten you.”
“But than, quo' he, “I'm no sae sonsie
To haud away the wights unchancie;
For fient a fay durst e'er appear
Sae lang as he was gaun you near.
Yet, rather than ye gang ye'er lane,
I'll do my best to see ye hame.
But, bless me, Betty, gi'es ye'er haun,
Ye leuk' as ye cou'd hardly stan';
There's surely something wrang or ither,
Ye ne'er let'ae sab wait'anither.”
Kin'ly her haun' an arm she gaed:
Awa they slipt but naething said.
Yet, in that silent situation,
For what wou'd he ha'e chang'd his station?
Right fain wou'd she ha'e tellt him a',
Yet something ay within said na.
The heart was fou, twou'd fain been out,
But coudna light on words to suit,—
Till mem'ry stept across the min,
An wak'd the days o' auld lang syne.
The hawthorn yet stood on the brae
That shielt them mony a simmer day;
Whare the slee pyat wont to hap;
The lanely cushet cooin sat:
Their seats an' houses, rear'd wi' care,
The stanes lay scatter'd here an' there;
An' saughtrees, planted by his han,
Wav'd high their taps, an' hid the stran'.
What various thoughts the min pourtray'd,—
His cheek to her's he saftly laid,
While sympathy, wi' simple haud,
Forgat that modesty forbade.
E'en waefu' Ken, with gratefu' e'e,
Wad lick her haun, an whisk her knee,
Till she wad straik an clap his head,
Then joyfu' on the way he'd lead.
“O Bess, thir scenes are dear to me,
But doubly sae whan blest wi' thee;—
Dear as when hope the mind employs,
To picture scenes o' future joys:
Tho' simmer has withdrawn his beams,
They're aften present in my dreams,
Wi' a' the flow'ry birth o' May,
When we, like them, were young an' gay.
Ilk'hill an' dale, an' buss, an' green,
Whispers how happy we ha'e been;
I fear they'll ne'er return again,—
An' pleasure past but heightens pain:
As wint'ry calms, in mildest form,
Prove aft the prelude to a storm.
When ye war near, Pay was glad,
An' seem'd to see you aft, when fled:
As music through the ears does thrill,
Tho' ceas'd, we seem to hear it still.
I kentna then, as I ken now,
What ill the want o' wealth cou'd do:
Or, if for't e'er my heart did ake,
'Twas only, truly, for thy sake;
Me, fondest fancy whyles wou'd move,
To picture a' the joys o'love:
Till then, my wishes cou'd explain,
An' some day wou'd be a' my ain:
Then a' my fears to air wou'd gang—
Now tell me, was I right or wrang?”
“It's no for me,” quo' she, “to say
What may be done some ither day:
Nor can I weel, e'en now, define
The thoughts, when young, that cross'd my min
But this I ken, as weels yoursel',
That some gang daft whan they hear tell;
An' mair particularly my mither,
Whene'er she kens that we're thegither.
On marriage I'm no fully bent,
Nor do I yet ken their intent;
But soon as I can guess their views
I'll sen you twa lines o' the news;
Ye needna doubt—I'll no forget—
But, see! we're maist come to the yett;
Ye'd better turn.”—Quo' he, “Ye'll mind:”
So kiss'd, sheuk han's an' parted kind;
While back he scour'd out owre the bent,
An' thought his journey no ill spent.
The paetrick whirr'd alang the ley,
The pliver whistl'd o'er the fey,
The bleater cours'd aboon the bog,
Up the glens crap the lazy fog;
The saft win' shook the withrin' grass:
But Nature, in her hamely dress,
Wi' her habiliments laid by,
Can please us, whan the hopes are high.
Amang his mountains, bleak an' bare,
He hugs himsel' wi' hamely fare,
An' sleeps as soun' 'tween earthen wa's,
As lords within their lofty ha's.