The westlin wind blaws loud an' shill:
The night's baith mirk and rainy, O!
But I'll get my plaid, an' out I'll steal,
An' owre the hill to Nanie, O.
My Nanie's charming, sweet, an' young;
Nae artfu' wiles to win ye, 0:
May ill befa' the flattering tongue
That wad beguile my Nanie, O.
Her face is fair, her heart is true,
As spotless as she's bonie, 0:
The op'ning gowan, wat wi' dew,
Nae purer is than Nanie, O.
A country lad is my degree,
An' few there be that ken me, O; But what care I how few they be? I'm welcome ay to Nanie, O.
My riches a's my penny-fee,
An' I maun guide it cannie, 0:
But warl's gear ne'er troubles me,
My thoughts are a', my Nanie, O.
Our auld Guidman delights to view
His sheep an' kye thrive bonie, O;
But I'm as blythe that hauds his pleugh,
An' has nae care but Nanie, O.
Come weal, come woe, I care na by,
I'll tak what Heaven will sen' me, O;
Nae ither care in life have I,
But live, an' love my Nanie, O.
GREEN GROW THE RASHES. A FRAGMENT.
Green grow the rashes, O;
Green grow the rashes, O;
The sweetest hours that e'er I spend,
Are spent among the lasses, 01
There's nought but care on ev'ry han',
In ev'ry hour that passes, O;
What signifies the life o' man,
An' 'twere na for the lasses, O.
The warly' race may riches chase,
An' riches still may fly them, O;
An' tho' at last they catch them fast,
Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, O.
But gie me a cannie hour at e'en,
My arms about my dearie, O;
An' warly cares, an' warly men,
May a' gae tapsalteerie, O!
For you sae douce, ye sneer at this,
Ye're nought but senseless asses, 0;
The wisest man the warl' e'er saw,
He dearly lov'd the lasses, O.
Auld Nature swears, the lovely dears
Her noblest work she classes, O;
Her 'prentice han' she tried on man,
An' then she made the lasses, O.
THE DEATH AND DYING WORDS OF POOR MAILIE, THI AUTHOR'S ONLY PET YOWE1.
AN UNCO MOURNFU' TALE.
As Mailie an' her lambs thegither
Were ae day nibbling on the tether,
Upon her cloot she coost a hitch',
An' owre she warsl'd in the ditch:
There groaning, dying, she did lie,
When Hughoc' he cam doytin by.
Wi' glowrin een, an' lifted han's,
Poor Hughoc like a statue stan's;
He saw her days were near-hand ended,
But, waes my heart! he could na mend it.
A neibor herd-callan about three-fourths as wise as other folk.
He gaped wide, but naething spak.
At length poor Mailie silence brak.
'O thou, whase lamentable face
Appears to mourn my woefu' case!
My dying words attentive hear,
An' bear them to my Master dear.
'Tell him, if e'er again he keep
As muckle gear as buy a sheep,
O, bid him never tie them mair
Wi' wicked strings o' hemp or hair!
But ca' them out to park or hill,
An' let them wander at their will;
So may his flock increase, an' grow
To scores o' lambs, an' packs o' woo'1!
'Tell him, he was a Master kin',
An' ay was guid to me an' mine;
An' now my dying charge I gie him,
My helpless lambs, I trust them wi' him.
'O, bid him save their harmless lives,
Frae dogs, an' tods, an' butchers' knives!
But gie them guid cow-milk their fill,
Till they be fit to fend themsel :
An' tent them duly, e'en an' morn,
Wi' taets o' hay, an' ripps o' corn.
'An' may they never learn the gaets'
Of ither vile, wanrestfu' pets!
To slink thro' slaps' an' reave1o an' steal,
At stacks o' pease, or stocks o' kail.
So may they, like their great forbears",
For monie a year come thro' the sheers;
So wives will gie them bits o' bread,
An' bairns greet 12 for them when they're dead.
'My poor toop 13-lamb, my son an' heir,
O, bid him breed him up wi' care!
An' if he live to be a beast,
To pit some havins 14 in his breast!
3 make shift.
7 ways. 8 restless.
An' warn him, what I winna name;
To stay content wi' yowes' at hame;
An' no to rin an' wear his cloots,
Like other menseless 2, graceless brutes.
An' niest my yowie", silly thing,
Gude keep thee frae a tether string!
O, may thou ne'er forgather up
Wi' ony blastit, moorland toop;
But ay keep mind to moop an' mell
Wi' sheep o' credit like thysel!
'And now, my bairns, wi' my last breath,
I lea'e my blessin wi' you baith:
An' when you think upo' your Mither,
Mind to be kind to ane anither.
'Now, honest Hughoc, dinna fail,
To tell my Master a' my tale;
An' bid him burn this cursed tether,
An', for thy pains, thou'se get my blather".
This said, poor Mailie turned her head,
An' closed her een amang the dead!
FROM AN EPISTLE TO JOHN LAPRAIK, AN OLD
SCOTTISH BARD.'
I am nae Poet, in a sense,
But just a Rhymer like, by chance,
An' hae to learning nae pretence,
Yet, what the matter?
Whene'er my Muse does on me glance,
I jingle at her.
Your critic-folk may cock their nose,
And say, 'How can you e'er propose,
You wha ken hardly verse frae prose,
To mak a sang?'
But, by your leaves, my learned foes,
Ye're maybe wrang.
What's a' your jargon o' your schools,
Your Latin names for horns an' stools;
If honest nature made you fools,
What sairs' your grammars?
Ye'd better taen up spades and shools2,
Or knappin 3-hammers.
A set o' dull, conceited hashes*,
Confuse their brains in college classes!
They gang in stirks, and come out asses,
Plain truth to speak ;
An' syne they think to climb Parnassus
By dint o' Greek!
Gie meae spark o' Nature's fire,
That's a' the learning I desire ;
Then tho' I drudge thro' dub' an' mire
At pleugh or cart,
My Muse, though hamely in attire,
May touch the heart.
O for a spunk o' Allan's glee,
Or Fergusson's, the bauld and slee,
Or bright Lapraik's, my friend to be,
If I can hit it!
TO A MOUSE, ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST,
WITH THE PLOUGH, NOVEMBER, 1785.
Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie,
O, what a panic's in thy breastie !
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
Wi' bickerin brattle 10!
I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee,
Wi' murd'ring pattle 11!
or bullock.
pond. spark.
"hand-stick for clearing the plough.
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