But whan I shoot my nose in, ten to ane
If I weelfardly see my ain hearthstane :
She round the ingle wi' her gimmers sits,
Crammin their gebbies wi' her nicest bits.
While the gudeman, out-by, maun fill his crap
Frae the milk coggie, or the parritch caup.
Sandie! gif this were ony common plea,
I should the lealest o' my counsel gie;
But mak or meddle betwixt man and wife,
Is what I never did in a' my life.
Its wearing on now to the tail o' May,
And just between the bear-seed and the hay ;
As lang's an orra mornin may be spared,
Stap your wa's east the haugh, and tell the
laird:
For he's a man weel versed in a' the laws;
Kens baith their outs and ins, their cracks and
And ay right gleg, whan things are out o' joint,
At sattlin o' a nice or kittle point.
But yonder's Jock, he'll ca' your owsen hame,
And tak the tidings to your thrawart dame,
That ye're awa ae peacefu' meal to prie,
And tak your supper, kail or sowens, wi' me.
2
To the Memory of DR WILLIAM WILKIE, late Professor of Natural Philosophy in the University of St Andrews.
BLAW saft
my reed, and kindly, to my maen,
Weel may ye thole a saft and dowie strain.
Nae mair to you shall shepherds, in a ring,
Wi' blithness skip, or lasses lilt and sing ;
Sic sorrow now maun sadden ilka ee;
And ilka waefu' shepherd grieve wi' me.
Wharefore begin a sad and dowie strain,
Or banish liltin frae the Fifan plain?
Tho' Simmer's gane, and we nae langer view
The blades o' claver wat wi' pearls o' dew;
Cauld Winter's bleakest blasts we'll eithly cour,
Our elden's driven, and our har'st is owre;
Our rucks, fu' thick, are stackit i̇' the yard;
For the Yule-feast a sautit mart's prepared ;
The ingle-nook supplies the simmer fields,
And aft as mony gleefu' moments yields.
Swyth, man! fling a' your sleepy springs awa,
And on your canty whistle gie's a blaw:
Blithness, I trow, maun lighten ilka ee;
And ilka canty callant sing like me.
Na, na! a canty spring wad now impart
Just threefauld sorrow to my heavy heart.
Thof to the weet my ripened aits had fa'an,
Or shake-winds owre my rigs wi' pith had blawn;
To this I could hae said, "I carena by,"
Nor fund occasion now my cheeks to dry.
Crosses like thae, or lack o' warld's gear,
Are naething, when we tyne a friend that's dear.
Ah! waes me for you, Willie! mony a day
Did I wi' you on yon broom-thackit brae
Hound aff my sheep, and let them careless gang
To harken to your cheery tale or sang ;-
Sangs that, for ay, on Caledonia's strand,
Shall sit the foremost 'mang her tunefu' band.
I dreamt, yestreen, his deadly wraith I saw Gang by my een, as white's the driven snaw; My collie, Ringie, youfed and youled a' night; Coured and crap nar me, in an unco fright:
I wakened, fleyed, and shook baith lith and lim'.
A cauldness took me, and my sight grew dim;
I kent that it forspake approaching wae,
Whan my poor doggie was disturbit sae.
Nae sooner did the day begin to dawn,
Than I beyont the knowe fu' speedy ran,
Whare I was keppit wi' the heavy tale
That sets ilk dowie sangster to bewail.
And wha on Fifan bents can weel refuse
To gie the tear o' tribute to his muse ?—
Fareweel ilk cheery spring, ilk canty note,
Be daffin and ilk idle play forgot;
Bring ilka herd the mournfu', mournfu' boughs,
Rosemary sad, and ever dreary yews;
Thae lat be steepit i' the saut, saut tear,
To weet wi' hallowed draps his sacred bier,
Whase sangs will ay in Scotland be rever'd,
While slow-gawn owsen turn the flowery swaird;
While bonny lammies lick the dews of spring,
While gaudsmen whistle, or while birdies sing.
"Twas na for weel-timed verse or sangs alane,
He bore the bell frae ilka shepherd swain.
Nature to him had gien a kindly lore,
Deep, a' her mystic ferlies to explore:
For a' her secret workings he could gie
Reasons that wi' her principles agree.
Ye saw, yoursel, how weel his mailin thrave ;
Ay better faughed and snodit than the lave:
Lang had the thristles and the dockans been
In use to wag their taps upo' the green,
Whare now his bonny rigs delight the view,
And thrivin hedges drink the cauler dew*.
They tell me, Geordie! he had sic a gift,
That scarce a starnie blinkit frae the lift,
But he would some auld warld name for't find,
As gart him keep it freshly in his mind.
For this, some ca'd him an uncanny wight:
The clash gaed round," he had the second
A tale that never failed to be the pride
O' grannies spinnin at the ingle-side.
But now he's gane; and Fame, that, whan alive,
Seenil lats ony o' her votaries thrive,
Will frae his shinin name a' mots withdraw,
And on her loudest trump his praises blaw.
* Dr Wilkie had a farm near St Andrews, on which he made great improvements.
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