« ForrigeFortsæt »
That day, ye pranc'd wi' muckle pride, When bure hame ye
bonnie bride : An' sweet and gracefu' she did ride,
Wi' maiden air ! Kyle Stewart I could bragged wide,
For sic a pair.
Tho' now ye dow but hoyte and hobble,
For heels an' win'!
Far, far behin.'
When thou an' I were young and skeigh,
An' tak the road!
An' ca't thee mad.
When thou was corn't, an' I was mellow
For pith an' speed;
Whare'er thou gaed.
The sma', droop-rumplit, hunter cattle,
An' gart them whaizle:
O'saugh or hazle.
Thou was a noble fittie-lan',
On guid March-weather,
For days thegither.
Thou never braindg’t, an' fetch't, an' fliskit, But thy auld tail thou wad hae whiskit, An' spread abreed thy weel-fill'd brisket,
Wi' pith and pow'r, 'Till spritty knowes wad rair't and risket,
An' slypet owre.
When frosts lay lang, an' snaws were deep, An' threaten'd labor back to keep, I gied thy cog a wee-bit heap
Aboon the timmer ; I ken'd my Maggie wad na sleep
For that, or simmer.
In cart or car thou never reestit;
Then stood to blaw;, But just thy step a wee thing hastit,
Thou snoov't awa,
My pleugh is now thy bairn-time a'; Four gallant brutes as e'er did draw; Forbye sax mae, I've sell’t awa,
That thou hast nurst: They drew me thretteen pund an' twa,
The vera warst.
Monie a sair daurk we twa hae wrought, An' wi' the weary warl fought!
' An' monie an anxious day, I thought
We wad be beat! Yet here to crazy age we're brought,
Wi' something yet.
And think na, my auld, trusty servan', That now perhaps thou's less deservin, An' thy auld days may end in starvin,
For my last fou, A heapit stimpart, I'll reserve ane
Laid by for you.
We've worn to crazy years thegither ;
To some hain'd rig,
Wi' sma' fatigue.
On turning her up in her Nest with the Plough,
Wee, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie,
Wi' bickering brattle!
Wi' murd’ring pattle!
I'm truly sorry man's dominion Has broken Nature's social union, An' justifies that ill opinion
Which makes thee startle At me, thy poor
An' fellow-mortul !