Her hearth was slokent out wi' care,
Toom grew her kist and cauld her pan,
And dreigh and dowie waxed the night,
Ere Beltane, wi' her new gudeman.
She dreary sits 'tween naked wa's,
Her cheek ne'er dimpled into mirth;
Half-happit, haurling out o' doors,
And hunger-haunted at her hearth.
And see the tears fa' frae her een,
Warm happin' down her haffits wan;
But guess her bitterness of saul
In sorrow for her auld gudeman!
The Gude Farmer.
[Written by A. Scott, to the tune of "The Rock and the Wee Pickle Tow."]
I'm now a gude farmer, I've acres o' land,
An' my heart aye loups light when I'm vievrin' o't,
An' I ha'e servants at my command,
An' twa dainty cowts for the plowin' o't.
My farm is a snug ane, lies high on a muir,
The muir-cocks an' plivers aft skirl at my door,
An' whan the sky lowrs I'm aye sure o' a show'r,
To moisten my land for the plowin' o't.
Leeze me on the mailin that's fa'n to my share,
It taks sax muckle bowes for the sawin' o't;
I've sax braid acres for pasture, an' mair,
And a dainty bit bog for the ma win' o't.
A spence an' a kitchen my mansion-house gi'es,
I've a cantie wee wifie to daut whan I please,
Twa bairnies, twa callans, that skelp ower the leas,
An' they'll soon can assist at the plowin' o't.
My biggan stands sweet on this south slopin' hill,
An' the sun shines sae bonnily beamin' on't,
An' past my door trots a clear prattlin' rill,
Frae the loch, whare the wild ducks are swimmin' on't';
An' on its green banks, on the gay summer days,
My wifie trips barefoot, a-bleaching her claes,
An' on the dear creature wi' rapture I gaze,
While I whistle and sing at the plowin' o't.
To rank amang farmers I ha'e muckle pride,
But I mauna speak high whan I'm tellin' o't,
How brawlie I strut on my sheltie to ride,
Wi' a sample to show for the sellin' o't.
In blue worset boots that my auld mither span,
I've aft been fu' vauty sin' I was a man,
But now they're flung by, an' I've bought cordivan,
And my wifie ne'er grudg'd me a shillin o't.
Sae now, whan tae kirk or tae market I gae,
My weelfare, what need I be hidin' o't?
In braw leather boots, shining black as the slae,
I dink me to try the ridin' o't.
Last towmond I sell'd off four bowes o' gude bear,
An' thankfu' I was, for the victual was dear,
An' I came hame wi' spurs on my heels shinin' clear,
I had sic good luck at the sellin' o't.
Now hairst time is owre, an' a fig for the laird,
My rent's now secure for the toilin' o't;
My fields are a' bare, and my crap's in the yard,
An' I'm nae mair in doubts o' the spoilin' o't.
Now welcome gude weather, or wind, or come weet,
Or bauld ragin' winter, wi' hail, snaw, or sleet,
Nae mair can he draugle my crap 'mang his feet,
Nor wraik his mischief, an' be spoilin' o't.
An' on the dowf days, whan loud hurricanes blaw,
Fu' snug i' the spence I'll be viewin' o't,
An' jink the rude blast in my rush-theekit ha',
Whan fields are seal'd up frae the plowin' o't.
My bonnie wee wifie, the bairnies, an' me,
The peat-stack, and turf-stack, our Phœbus shall be,
Till day close the scoul o' its angry e'e,
An' we'll rest in gude hopes o' the plowin' o't.
Symon and Janet.
[Written in 1803 (during the alarm of a French invasion) by Andrew Scott, now or recently bethral or church officer in the parish of Bowuen, Roxburghshire.]
Surrounded wi' bent and wi' heather,
Where muircocks and plovers were rife,
For mony a lang towmond together,
There lived an auld man and his wife:
About the affairs o' the nation
The twasome they seldom were mute;
Bonaparte, the French, and invasion,
Did sa'ur in their wizzins like soot.
In winter, whan deep were the gutters,
And nicht's gloomy canopy spread,
Auld Symon sat luntin' his cuttie,
