But the niest week they lost a quey,
Whilk stray'd awa' to Sandy's fey;
Young Betty blythely gaed to get her,
An' he, as joyfu', saw an' met her;
He spak', she smil'd, and leuk'd fu' sweet —
Twa hearts were ne'er so fond to meet;
He clasp'd her in his arms, an' than
He was a' truly happy man:
But wha' think ye cou'd tell the pow'r,
O'love within that happy hour?
Or how he press'd an' she was kind —
Let lovers picture't i' their mind,
That feel the favours o' sic blisses,
Tho' naething pass'd but harmless kisses. —
Thus ha'e I seen, in flow'ry spring,
The rose-tree forth her blossoms fling;
Spread her saft fragrance thro' the air,
Near by the lily, bloomin' fair,
Though rudely bent wi' show'ry blast,
Look fairer when the storm was past.
She vow'd, o' gear her frien's sae proud,
Might seek out for her wha they wou'd,
Be't priest, or laird, or limb o' law,
She'd wed wi' him afore them a';
Then bade him come some day, an' see
What way the auld fouk wou'd tak' wi':
An' meikle mair they spak' about;
For lovers' talk runs seldom out.
Whan blinks' o' day war partly gane,
They parted blythe, to meet again.
But, proud o' heart, an' damp wi' fear
To face auld Kate, for want o' gear:
'Twas thus he stack 'tween hope an' doubt,
Till time a difference brought about.
Fortune for ance brak' thro' her rules,
Grown weary ay o' fav'rin' fools,
And blest him wi' a lump o' siller,
Tho' he had ne'er made courtship till her.
He had an uncle, without weans,
Liv'd lang amang the sugar canes;
Had sauld his saul' by unfair means,
To win' a fortun' to his frien's:
Sae destitute o' ought was good,
For gowd wou'd sauld his flesh an' blood;
Had gru'some caudrons ever boilin',
An' scores o' slaves aroun' him toilin';
An' aften wou'd himsel' solace
Within their greasy black embrace:
It's a' in taste; but, as they tell,
He ay was whipper-in himsel';
An' gart the lash wi' rigour crack,
Till red sweat started frae their back;
It cur'd his spleen to hear their squeels,
To score their hips, an' clog their heels:
'Twas strange that hell he never fear't,
For nought on yirth comes ha'f sae near't;
But death strak in an' scorch'd his liver,
An' boil'd his brains up in a fever;
So he maun die, and leave them a'
To far-aff frien's he never saw.
Now Sandy was nae langer blate,
But came to visit John and Kate;
While Bess was unco blythe to see him,
An' a' a hearty welcome gi'e him;
Kin'ly for a' his kin they speir;
Says ye're an unco stranger here;
Sae soon an ingle was brought ben,
An' soon they pluckt the hoodet hen;
A claith was spread upo' the board,
An' Sandy's Master'd ev'ry word.
Kate wi' her ain haun' set a chair;
John said a grace like ony pray'r;
Then heaps his plate wi' beef an kail,
An' bids him tak' a hearty meal;
Syne roun' they swill the barley broo. —
O wealth! what is't ye canna do?
Thou get'st us frien's, an' kin', an mony;
Mak's hamely lasses dear an' bonny;
Opes the blate wooer's steekit mouth;
An' gars the lawyer speak the truth:
Maks wee men great men, mony a time;
Gars poets preach, and pipers rhyme;
An' clears up mony a point o' faith:
In short, reverses a' but death.
Thus luck an' love did baith combine
Wi' youth their hearts an haun's to join;
His proffers now were frank an' warm,
Nor did they deem his offers harm.
The Haly Chaunter gat a crown;
A cart was yokit for the town,
To buy the braws they aff did bicker,
Forbye a lade o' laeves an' liquor;
Then at the manse, as they came by,
Bespake Mess John, the knot to tie.
Thus, time, as usual, glade away;
But Sandy thought ilk' hour a day,
Till ance that happy e'en drew near,
To fill his arms wi' a' was dear;
He thank'd his stars an' happy fate,
That blest him wi' his bonnie Bet.
It's no for my weak muse's wing
The joys o' bridal nights to sing,
Nor paint the scenes o' virtuous love,
What twa' fond hearts in union move.
Yet, tho' she downa weel express't,
There's some nae doubt will try to guess't. —
Nor will I tak' in haun' to say
They war quite happy monie a day,
An ay war full as fond o' it her
As the fire day they gaed thegither.
There's nane exempit frae life's cares,
An' few frae some domestic jars;
An' whyles are in, an' whyles are out;
For grief an' joy come time about.
An' they that doubt may try, and see
Whether its them that's right, or me.
But, if content stays here ava,
Ye'd think their chance was no' that sma'.
Now, shou'd some critic snap an' snarl
At this lang tale, without a moral;
Say, I've intruded on his time,
Wi' lengthen'd play o' dogg'rel rhyme,
I freely own, 'twas wrote for pleasin' —
This age is not for moralizin':
For this is law, says Vicar Bray,
To suit yoursel' to present day.