Classic Poem

In yon ha' house, ayont the fell,
Whar rural peace an' pleasure dwell;
An' waning age, an' wanton youth,
An' modest worth, an' simple truth,
There liv'd a lass, if Fame speak true,
Wi' laughin' een an' cherry mou',
An' sweeter charms than I can paint:
In face an' form without a taint.
Her father's name was John Maclellan—
Douce honest man, he farm'd a mailin';
In youthfu' days wrought for his bread,
Wi' gude blue bonnet on his head,
An' tho' the times began to mend,
His auld acquaintance ay he kend;
Blest wi' a rive o' common sense,
To polish'd life made nae pretence:
Was simply plain in a' his dealins,
Nor wad he step aside for mailins.—
Ne'er pree'd anither but his wife,—
Ne'er heard a law court in his life;
Cou'd tak' his chappin, pay his kain,
But never tippl'd by his lane.
Nor wad his wifie waste his winnin',
But kept a' feat wi' her ain spinnin'—
Held ay the house baith tight an' bien,
An' made their meltiths warm an' clean:
Whan winter nights war dark an' lang,
Could tell her tale or lilt her sang,
'Bout deeds o' weir in former days,
Or lovers dools on Scotlan's braes,
Wi' weirds an' witch'ries aft atween,
An' unco sights that some had seen;
Nor was she backward or unheedfu'
To ken or tell o'things mair needfu'—
Had read the Unconverted's Call,
An' learnt hail loof-breads o' St Paul,
Wi' sic like learnin' as was common
For ony couthy countra woman.
But wha can read the buik o' fate?
Although his sonsie helpmate Kate
Was ay the apple o' his e'e,
An' mony a bonny bairn had she:
Tho fickle Fortune brought them gain,
I wot they war'nae free frae pain:
For death, the terror o' us a',
That thins the cot an' weeds the ha',
Stauk'd furth wi' a' his darts an' scythes,
In shape o' measles, kinks, an' hives,
Till only ane their care did claim,
An' bonny Betty was her name.
Ere saxteen simmers o'er her flew,
She cou'd baith card an' spin the woo,
Row up the fleeces at the clippin',
An' had the milkness a' in keepin'—
Could knit an' sew, an' a' sic wark,
As dress her father's Sunday sark,
Crimp up ilk ruffle, frill an' border,
An' set the tea-cups a' in order;
An' maxims mony mae were taught her,
That ilka mither shaws her daughter:'
Was kind and blythesome wi' her kin,
Or ony neibour that cam in;
For chapman chiel or beggar body,
Her weel wal'd word was ay fou ready,
Till a', baith far an' near, confest,
She was the bonniest an' the best.
Now, as sic lasses are aft scant,
O' sweethearts routh she didnae want:
Sic beauty, an' the name o' siller,
Gart wooers flock like wil'-geese till her.