Classic Poem

BUT by some how it soon cam' out,
An' nei'bours tauk't o't roun' about,
An' thro' the countra flew ding dang,
That thae twa wou'd be wed ere lang;
Whan some, nae doubt, thro' frien'ly views,
Tauld Sandy the unwelcome news,
Whilk sic a stoun' sent to his breast
As some ha'e foun' but few exprest.
Ha'e ye no seen the tow'ring pine
Spread out its arms to western win',
Or bathe its bud in April dews,
While wild birds warble thro' its boughs,
Till loud the northren blasts are borne,
Its foliage thinn'd, its branches torn?
Or ha'e ye seen the parent mild,
Bow o'er his sickly only child,
While silent griefs his bosom wound,
Unmindful of his friends around?—
So, stood he, like a statue dumb,
While croudin' thoughts his min' o'ercome;
Or, if a gleam stept 'cross his min'
O' days when she was true an' kin',
Then wicked mem'ry, ne'er asleep,
That brings the sour as weel's the sweet,
Brought to his mind anither matter—
How she had never sent the letter;
Or when he saw her e'er sinsyne,
To be their lanes did ne'er incline.
Now what tho' simmer roun' did bloom,
An' breezes bore the saft perfume;
The birken bank or blushin' flow'r
To please him now had lost their pow'r:
The bird that charm'd him in the spring
Was now an idle chitterin' thing;
The burnie singin' owre the linn
But stunn'd an' deav'd him wi' its din:
His mind, retirin', shunn'd ilk joy,
Like sickly virgin pale and coy:
Even a' the pleasures life cou'd gi'e
He view'd them wi' a jaundic'd e'e.
To ease his mind frae doubts an' dread,
An' see gif a' was true was said,
At midnight hour, wi' grief opprest,
When thoughtless sauls were at their rest,
He stauk'd awa' thro' win' an rain,
An' sought her door wi' meikle pain,
There at the window peepit in,
But a' was still an' dark within:
His bane, his bliss, his a' was there;
His hopes were dull, his heart was sair;
Each wonted signal now he tries,
He chaps, he whispers, hoasts, and cries,
“Oh! are ye sleepin', Betty dear?”
Yet she lay still and doughtna hear;
But the unchancie curs within
Soon heard, an' made a gowlin' din;
Till Kate wauk'd, wi' an unco fike,
Cries “What's ado! the dog's gane gyte!
The Lord look till us an' our wean,
For something surely ca'd her name;
Like a wil' skreich borne on the wind,
An' thrice it duntit on the grund:
Wi' sic a soun' my lugs were stown'd
The night afore Jean Tamson drown'd.—
John, did ye hear that voice sae deep?”
“Hout, I heard nought—lie still, an' sleep.”
His proud heart dunted back wi' grief,
To be thus cow'ring, like a thief,
A' chill'd wi' cauld, and wet wi' rain,
For ane that felt nae for his pain.
His patience cou'd nae langer thole;
He stapt twa lines thro' the key-hole.
The east win' blew, wi' hailstanes keen;
The lightning gleam'd the blasts between:
His road lay owre a dreary muir,
An' by a castle's haunted tow'r,
Whar howlets scream'd wi' eerie din,
Till vaults re-echo'd a' within.
The spate spew'd owre ilk burn and sleugh,
The tod scream't eldritch frae the cleugh;
Auld Dee spread wide his darken'd waves,
An' roar'd amang his rocky caves;
The moon and stars their light withdrew,
An' hid their heads frae human view.
As daund'rin' slaw, he stauk'd his lane,
A' weary'd, wan, and wae-be-gane,
His fondest fairy dreams were fled—
He sigh'd, an' wish'd him wi' the dead.
O! thou dread, wylie, wicked pest,
That laughs at poverty distrest,
Wham sighs an' sorrows seldom move,
Art thou the gentle power of Love?
Mild is thy visage, gay an' young,
Thy voice like fabl'd syrens song;
Soft is thy dalliance for an hour,
Ere yet equipt with all thy power:
But where, with scepter'd power thou reigns,
Thou bind'st thy subjects up in chains:—
Chains stronger far than bands o' brass,
Then leaves them, raving in distress.
But whan the ruddy streaks o' dawn
Had spread their light owre lough an' lawn,
Up sprang the lark, on early wing,
An' wauk'd his field-mates roun', to sing;
Whan Kate, ay eident for their weal,
Gat up, an' maist fell owre the wheel:
Her brats she on her bouk was drawin',
Afore the cock had ceas'd frae crawin':
Then to the hallan graips her way,
An' leuks the lift, to judge the day.
But, Sandy, ye was war than mad,
To shoot your sonnets sic a road:
For, comin' near the water-kit,
She sees some white thing at her fit,
As back she owre the threshold treadit—
But, praise be blest!—she cou'dna read it.
First thought it was a J—nie N—p—r,
Then deem'd it Betty's curlin' paper;
Flang't in the bole behint the lum,
Rakes down the coals, an' lights her gun.
But breakfast done, an' readin' by,
The men t' hill, and Kate t' kye,
When Betty, busied at her wheel,
An' lilting owre Lord Moira's reel,
Hard by the boal had ta'en her stan',
She sees the scrawl, an' kens the haun'.
The paper trembled as she read,
An' ay her colour came an' gade:—
“Thou fause, tho' fairest o' thy kind,
“That wounds my peace, and racks my mind,
“Can'st thou thy Sandy's heart disdain,
“An' slight his love for sordid gain;
“That ance his fondest hopes wou'd cheer,
“An' bless him with thy presence dear?
“I fain wad seen thee by thysel',
“To tak' the lang and last farewell,
“Afore that waefu' knot be ty'd,
“That bin's thee for anither's bride,
“An' leads thee, blushin' in thy charms,
“Into a happy rival's arms.
“Far be't frae me, that I dissuade,
“Or blame you for the choice ye've made:
“But had ye been content to gi'e
“Your haun' thro' life, and luck wi' me,
“For you ilk care and cross I'd meet,
“An' toil'd thro' winter's win' and weet;
“Nor shou'd it e'er been warldly gain,
“I think, shou'd cost you grief or pain.
“But Fate sic favours doughtna deign;
“Alas! ye never can be mine.
“Adieu; an' may ye happy be,
“As e'er I thought to've been wi' thee.”
She wi' amazement on't did stare,
An' wonder'd how it cou'd come there;
Stunn'd and confus'd her senses seem,
Like ane new waken'd frae a dream.