Reed grew my fingers, reeder far my feace:
What cou'd I do in sec a despart kease?
Away I sleeng'd, to granny meade my mean;
My granny, (God be with her, now she's geane,)
Skilfu' the gushing bluid wi' cockwebs staid;
Then on the sair an healing plaister laid;
The healing plaister eas'd the painful sair,
The scar indeed remains, but naething mair.
Not sae that other wound, that inward smart,
My granny cou'd not cure a bleeding heart;
I've bworn the bitter torment three lang year,
And aw my life-time mun be fworc'd to bear,
'Less Betty will a kind physician pruive;
For nin but she has skill to med'cine luive.
But how should honest Betty give relief?
Betty's a perfect stranger to my grief:
Oft I've resolved my ailment to explain;
Oft I've resolved, indeed-but all in vain.
Can I forget that night !—I never can!
When on the clean sweep'd hearth the spinnels ran.
The lasses drew their line wi' busy speed;
The lads as busy minded every thread;
When, sad! the line sae slender Betty drew,
Snap went the thread and down the spinnel flew.
To me it meade-the lads began to glope-
What cou'd I do? I mud, mud tak' it up;
I tuik it up, and (what gangs pleaguy hard)
E'en reached it back without the sweet reward.
O lasting stain! e'en yet the eye may treace
A guilty conscience in my blushing feace.
I fain wou'd wesh it out, but never can;
Still fair it bides like bluid of sackless man.
Nought sae was Wully bashfu'-Wully spy'd
A pair of scissors at the lass's side;
Thar lowsed, he sleely dropped the spinnel down—
And what said Betty?-Betty struive to frown;
Up flew her hand to souse the cow'ring lad,
But ah, I thought it fell not down owre sad;
What follow'd I think mickle to repeat,
My teeth aw watter'd then, and watter yet.
E'en weel is he that ever he was bworn!
He's free frae aw this bitterment and scworn:
What, mun I still be fash'd wi' straggling sheep,
Wi' far-fetch'd sighs, and things I said a-sleep;
Still shamefully left snafflen by mysell
And still, still dogg'd wi' the damn'd neame o' mell!
Where's now the pith (this luive! the deuce ga wi't!)
The pith I show'd whene'er we struive, to beat;
When a lang lwonin' through the cworn I meade,
And bustlin' far behind, the lave survey'd.
Dear heart! that pith is geane and comes nae mair
Till Betty's kindness shall the loss repair;
And she's not like (how sud she?) to be kind,
Till I have freely spoken out my mind,
Till I have learn'd to feace the maiden clean,
Oil'd my slow tongue, and edg'd my sheepish een.
A buik theer is-a buik-the neame-shem fa't
Some thing o' compliments I think they ca't:
That meakes a clownish lad a clever spark,
O hed I this! this buik wad do my wark ;
And I's resolved to hav't whatever't cost :
My flute-for what's my flute if Betty's lost?
And if sae bonny a lass but be my bride,
I need not any comfort lait beside.
Farewell my flute then yet or Carlile fair;
When to the stationer's I'll straight repair,
And boldly for thur compliments enquear;
Care I farding?-let the 'prentice jeer.
That duin, a handsome letter I'll indite,
Handsome as ever country lad did write;
A letter that shall tell her aw I feel,
And aw my wants without a blush reveal.
But now the clouds brek off and sineways run; Out frae his shelter lively luiks the sun,
Brave hearty blasts the droopin' barley dry,
The lads are gaun to shear-and sae maun I.]
HAY-TIME; OR THE CONSTANT LOVERS.
Warm shone the sun, the wind as warmly blew, No longer cooled by draughts of morning-dew; When in the field a faithful pair appeared, A faithful pair full happily endeared: Hasty in rows they raked the meadow's pride, Then sank amidst the softness side by side, To wait the withering force of wind and sun And thus their artless tale of love begun.
A finer hay-day seer was never seen ; The greenish sops already luik less green; As weel the greenish sop will suin be dry'd As Sawney's 'bacco spred by th' ingle side.
And see how finely strip'd the fields appear, Strip'd like the gown that I on Sundays wear; White shows the rye, the big of blaker hue, The blooming pezz green mix'd wi' reed and blue.
Let other lads to spworts and pastimes run, And spoil their Sunday clease and clash their shoon; If Peggy in the field my partner be,
To work at hay is better spwort to me.
Let other lasses ride to Rosley-fair,
And mazle up and down the market there;
I envy not their happy treats and them,
Happier mysell, if Roger bides at heame.
It's hard aw day the heavy scythe to swing;
But if my lass a halesome breakfast bring,
Even mowing-time is better far I swear,
Than Curs'mas and aw it's dainty cheer.
Far is the Gursin off, topful the kits,
But if my Cursty bears the milk by fits,
For galloping to wakes I ne'er gang wud,*
For every night's a wake, or full as good.
Can thou remember?—I remember't weel,—
Sin lal wee things we claver'd owre yon steel;
Lang willy-wands for hoops I us'd to bay,
To meake my canny lass a lady gay.
Then dadg'd we to the bog owre meadows dree,
To plet a sword and seevy cap for thee;
Set off with seevy cap and seevy sword
My Cursty luik'd as great as onie lword.
Beneath a dyke full monie a langsome day,
We sat and beelded houses fine o' clay;
For dishes acorn cups stuid dessed in rows,
And broken pots for dubblers mens'd the wa's.
O may we better houses get than thar,
Far larger dishes, dubblers brighter far;
And ever-mair delighted may we be,
I to meake Cursty fine, and Cursty me.
* Wud-Mad (used by Spenser and other old writers).
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