Classic Poem

THE first a farmer's eldest sin;
Was beef without, but blank within:
On market Monday's sauld a stirk,
On Sunday closely kept the kirk,
Wi' pious zeal, an' future views,
To wale a wife, an' catch the news.
I wat a pleugh he weel could tune,
An' trim his graith, an' mend his shoon:
Could shear a point baith fast an' slaw,
An' thresh, an' dike, an' ditch, an' maw;
But then his een an' thoughts were blind
To beauties, o' the heart an' mind,
It ne'er cross'd his brain the smallest
If Rome or Glasco' town was aul'est,
Was E'nbro' 'yont or 'nist the Forth,
If France lay east, or west, or north:
Unmov'd, “The Waes o' War” he'd hear,
Nor piteous tale cou'd draw a tear:
In vain the spring her flow'rets spread,
Thoughtless, he'd on the daisie tread;
In vain the wee burds happ'd and sang
The buddin' hazle bank alang;
Or lam'kins roun' him skipt' an' play'd,
While ewies for their younglin's maed:
Sic sights nae pleasure brought ava—
Only, if every ewe had twa,
If grass wad gar the outlers sell,
An' how the braird look'd on the hill.
At' vulgar jest or smutty sang,
His vacant laugh was loud an' lang:
Proud, without prudence, wit, or wealth,
His only property was health.—
He saw at least ae specious charm—
The lassie's gear wad stock a farm;
An' tho' his hopes did highly shore him,
'Twas but sma' kindness she had for him.
It chanced ae morning mirk wi' mist,
He saw young Betty ere she wist,
Ca'in' the ewes wi' cannie care,
That war a' scattered here an' there:
Off ilka blade the dew-drop flang,
As light she thro' the clover sprang.
A hunder beauties flush'd her cheek,
Her risin' bosom seem'd to speak:
The napkin loos'd, wi' ease he saw
The bonniest keams o' new-fan snaw.
'Twas then that love play'd him a shavie,
'An' strak his dart in donsie Davie.—
Her coats war kiltet to the knee,
An' shaw'd, right shapely, to the e'e,
A leg sae han'some, feat an' clean—
She leuk'd like ony fairy queen.
But what made him sae simply sober,
To see the lass amang the clover,
An' gart his heart ay thump and pat,
Tho' neither fley'd, nor cauld, nor wat,
An' start behint a buss an' cour,
Tho' he had seen the lass afore,
An' silent lie, like ony maukin',
Wha ne'er afore was fear'd for takin',
'Till ewe an' lam' had left the lair,
An' she was hame an' he was there?
Niest time was at a countra waddin',
Whan baith war present at the beddin';
On bride-cakes sweet they chow'd the cud,
The drink gaed roun' in merry mood,
Wiss'd routh o' bairns an' happy days,
An' pour'd libations 'mang the claes:
The left leg hoe they now prepare,
An' circle roun', wi' anxious care,
To see wha fortune wad decide
To be the niest bridegroom and bride:—
When, lo! the die of fate was cast,
An' lightet saft on Betty's breast:—
The shouts o' laughter roun' were spread;
She stept' aside, but naething said;
While Davie thought the time's at hand
That he maun either fa' or stand.—

O Happiness, ye wily jade,
That mak's baith poor an' rich sae mad,
An' tow'ring genius dull an' doited,
An' sober sages capernoited,
Wha anxious search, but canna get ye,
While ye sit still an' never fret ye:
Tho' aft your secret dens an' haunts,
Are fund by fouks wha are nae saunts;
By rhymin' second-sighted skill,
I've fund the mansion whar ye dwell;
At least whar you an' I hae met,
For 'deed ye're seldom sicker set.—
'Tis whan the piper's martial lay
Sweeps o'er some Highland wild strathspay;
Whar sprightly flickering dance is seen,
An' lightly flows the tartan sheen;
A reekin' bowl, or Highlan' gill,
The ready rhino at our will;
A frien' at han', wi' wit an' glee,
The lass we like best on our knee:
Wha winna be content wi' this,
Is ill to please o' warldly bliss.
Yet still our wooer wasna happy,
Tho' fully ha'f an' ha'f wi' nappy;
Tho' hale an' feir, an' routh o' rents,
Like Adam, still he had his wants,
When, 'las, he kentna whar to gang;
But Davie saw, his help at han'.
Right blyth he sat by her, I ween,
But ithers soon thrust in atween,
An' if she on them deign'd to look,
He thought it something frae him teuk;
For envy catch'd him in her thrall,
An' turned his sweetest joys to gall.
But whisky ay gars courage come,
Dispels ilk doubt, ilk fear, an' gloom;
For first ae service, than anither,
His courage syne began to gather;
He e'ed his boots, an' thought them braw,
Then a' his fears he flung awa;
He bow'd—she smil'd, an' raise to reel—
An' few could play their part sae weel.—
Her lint-white locks, were belted roun',
Save curls that play'd her e'e aboon,
Where Cupid was in ambush laid,
An' mony a wily trick he play'd:
Her shapely neck, o' fairest hue,
Was grac'd wi' garnets gilt an' blue:
But vain wad Art her gumflow'rs shaw,
Whar Nature's lilies rival snaw.
He gaz'd, he viewed her o'er an' o'er,
Nor lap he ere sae light afore,
Syne pou'd her doun upo' his knee—
O, what a happy man was he!
He hoasts for breath, but naething said,
His han' upo' her shouther laid.
His hopes were high, his heart was fain,
He dights his brow an' hoasts again:
Yet still in art o' wooing slack,
At length she gloomy silence brak:
“How's a' your fouk at hame?” quo' she;
“They're middling weel,” again quo' he:
“To set ye hame I wad be fain;
I'se warrant ye'll no gang ye'er lane.
I saw ye brawlie whan ye cam
Out owre the muir wi' gard'ner Tam:
As soon as ye cam to the brow,
I lookit lang an' thought 'twas you;
Our young cowt gov'd, I gae'm a whack,
He pranced, an' syne the back-rape brak.
When I was tackin't up thegither,
He ate the brecham aff the ither:
For he's sae fou o' prank an' tricks,
An' jumps, an' flings, an' snores, an' kicks:
Yet tho' he's ill an' ill aneugh,
I ne'er saw onie in a pleugh,
When rivin' thro' yon bent an' heather,
That I wad gie the tane for t'ither;
But tho' I say't that soudna tell,
Nane e'er dare work wi'm but mysel'.
My mither o' him dreads ay skaith,
An', says he'll some day be my death;
An' ance he hurt my shin right sair,”—
Thinks Bess, ye'll mak' a bonny pair!
So up she gat an' tripp'd her ways,
An' left the laddie in amaze;
Nae langer cou'd she thole his blether,
But slip't hame cannie wi' her father:
He ne'er again; at kirk or fair,
Durst ever wi' her taigle mair.