Four Funny Tales (1802, Ayr)/The Loss o' the Pack
For other versions of this work, see Loss of the Pack.
THE
LOSS O' THE PACK;
A TRUE TALE.
Boutgates I hate, quo' girning Maggy Pringle,Syne harl'd Watty, greeting, thro' the ingle.Since this fell question seems sae lang to hing on,In twa three words I'll gie ye my opinion.
I wha stand here, in this bare scoury coat,Was ance a Packman, wordy mony a groat:I've carried packs as big's your meikle table;I've scarted pats, and sleepit in a stable:Sax pounds I wadna for my pack ance ta'en,And I could bauldly brag 'twas a' mine ain.
Aye! thae war days indeed, that gart me hope,Aeblins, thro' time, to warsle up a shop:And as a wife ay in my noddle ran,I kend my Kate wad grapple at me than.O Kate was past compare! sic cheeks! sic een!Sic smiling look! were never, never seen.Dear, dear I lo'ed her, and whane'er we met,Pleaded to have the bridal day but set;Stapped her pouches fa' o' preens and laces,And thought mysel' weel paid wi' twa-three kisses: Yet still she put it aff frae day to day,And aften kindly in my lug wad say,'Ae half year langer's no nae unco stop,'We'll marry than, and syne set up a shop.'
O Sir, but lasses words are saft and fair!They soothe cur griefs, and banish ilka care:Wha wadna toil to please the lass he lo'es?A lover true, minds this in a' he does.Finding her mind was thus sae firmly bent,And that I cou'dna get her to relent,There was nought left, but quietly to resign,To heeze my pack for ae lang hard campaign:And, as the Highlands was the place for meat,I ventur'd there in spite of wind and weet.
Cauld now the winter blew, and deep the sna'For three hale days, incessantly did fa';Far in a muir, amang the whirling drift,Whar nought was seen but mountains and the lift,I lost my road, and wander'd mony a mile,Maist dead wi' hunger, cauld, and fright, and toil.Thus wand'ring, east or west, I kend na' where,My mind o'ercome wi' gloom and black despair,Wi' a fell ringe, I plung’d at ance, forsooth,Down thro' a wreath o' snaw, up to my mouth.Clean o'er my head my precious wallet flew,But whar it gaed, Lord kens, I never knew!
What great misfortunes are pour'd down on some!I thought my fearfu' hinderen' was come!Wi' grief and sorrow was my saul o'ercast,Ilk breath I drew was like to be my last;For ay the mair I warsl'd roun' and roun'I fand mysel' ay stick the deeper down;Till ance, at length, wi' a prodigious pullI drew my poor cauld carcase frae the hole.
Lang, lang I sought and graped for my pack,Till night, and hunger forc'd me to come back.For three lang hours I wander'd up and down, Till chance, at last, convey'd me to a town:There, wi' a trembling hand, I wrote my KateA sad account of a' my luckless fate;But bade her ay be kind, and no despair,Since life was left, I soon wad gather mair;Wi' whilk, I hop'd, within a towmond's dateTo be at hame, and share it a' wi' Kate.
Fool that I was! how little did I thinkThat love wad soon be lost for fa't o' clink!The loss of fair won wealth, tho' hard to bear,Afore this—ne'er had pow'r to force a tear.I trusted time wad bring things round again,And Kate, dear Kate! wad then be a mine ain:Consol'd my mind in hopes o' better luck,But, O! what sad reverse! how thunderstruck!Whan ae black day brought word frae Rab my brither,That Kate was cried, and married on anither.
Tho' a' my friends, and ilka comrade sweet,At ance, had drapped cauld dead at my feet;Or, tho' I'd heard the last day's dreadfu' ca',Nae deeper horror o'er my heart cou'd fa';I curs'd mysel', I curs'd my luckless fate,And grat—and sabbing cried—O Kate! O Kate!
Frae that day forth—I never mair did weel,But drank and ran headforemost to the deel!My siller vanish'd, far frae hame I pin'd;But Kate for ever ran across my mind:In her were a' my hopes—these hopes were vain,And now,—I'll never see her like again.
'Twas this, Sir, President, that gart me start,Wi' meikle grief and sorrow at my heart,To gie my vote, frae sad experience, here,That disappointed love is war to bear,Ten thousand times, than loss of warld's gear.
