3
Slapped her pouches fu’ o’ prins and laces,
And thought mysel weel paid wi’twa three kisses
Yet still she put it aff frae day ta day,
And aften kindly in my lug wad say,
“Ae half year langer is nae unco stop,
“We’ll marry then, and syne set up a shop”.
O, Sir, but lasses words are saft and fair
Ihey soothe our 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 snaw
For three haill days incessantly did blaw.
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.
