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Down he threw his staff victorious; aff gaed bonnet, claes, and shoon;Syne below the blankets, glorious; held anither Hinny-Moon.
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:
