The sheep in the fauld fin' eneuch for their mou',
Ne'er toom is the draff-pock for Bessie the yad;
My ambry's weel stockit, my meal-buist is fu'-—
What mair needs a body to mak' the heart glad?
When at ora times thochtfu', I'm dowie an' wae
Wi' thinkin' o' things that I eanna weel name,
A wee drap o' barley-bree cheers me up sae,
I feel like a laird in my strae-theekit hame.
There's Davoc the herd, the pluffy bit callant,
Wi' no a bane doxie about him ava,-
He'll blaw on the pipes, or croon an auld ballant,
The lang nichts o' winter slip blithely awa.
Fornent the peat-nuik, on a clean bed o' strae,
The puir thing contented as onie lies doun;
He's up in the mornin' afore screich o' day,
The image o' health-for his sleep has been soun'.
There's the collie foreby, my best frien' o' frien's,
There's nae dog that wouffs half sae tentie as he;
Like mysel', for nae pampered bicker he griens,
An' mornin' and nicht taks his crowdie wi' me.
When sheep loup the dikes, or rin aff frae the lave, Quick as stoure in a blast he's at their bit fuds; When cauldly snaw-wreaths wad sune gie them a grave, To spare them out-owre the moss-muirland he scuds.
The whaup braves the storm, the peesweip cries its name,
An' aff to its covert the pairtraik may flee-
Sac, true to my nature, I naething mair claim
Than Providence kindly has ettled for me.
About braws an' siller I ne'er fash my thum'-
They breed yed an' cares that I downa weel ken;
It's clear as the peat-reik that gaes up the lum,—
If thriftie, the maist o' folk aye mak' a fen.
The Spring-time will come, an' warm sunshine will bring,
The ice-lockit burnies flow gushin' an' free;
The heather will bloom, an' the sweet linties sing,
An' aff to the schaws a' the robins will flee.
Syne Simmer will come, clad in raiment o' green,
The ewes an' their lammies will bleat on the lea;
The woods choral ring where noo Winter is seen,
An' gladness smile sweet on my wee hut an' me.
ULD Davie, time-honert, maist doited an' donnert,
Has seen the cauld winters o' fourscore an' twa;
He danders fu' glegly aboot his bit mailin,
An' aye gies a welcome to frien's that may ca'.
ye tak' but a turn doon the brae by the burn, Where schule weans gang soukies an' sourocks to pu', Ye'll see his laigh haddin wi' divots weel theikit,
The hame o' contentment where wants are but few.
Davie had but ae wife i' the course o' his life,
An' wae was the day when she slippit awa:
His ingle's been drearie sin' he lost his dearie,
The greatest mishap that e'er could him befa'.
Till o' late he could ploo, but he canna do't noo,
An' Time, the hair bleacher, has whitened his croun
On the rigs at the hairst he was mair than a match
For ony swack birkie the hale kintrie roun'.
The couthy auld body may tak' his drap toddy,
Has a' the bit comforts his sma' needs require;
His rauchan hamespun keeps him cozie an' warm,
An' blithely he looks by his peat-lowin' fire.
By neebors respeckit, he'll ne'er dee negleckit,
Altho' he be puir, an' his back at the wa';
Oh! rare virtues gild the last days o' auld Davie,
Wha aince was the laird o' yon proud-looking ha'.
It's but seldom he speaks o' his ain youthfu' freaks,
For auld folk, ye ken, their fau'ts ne'er will alloo;
Yet his heart seems to warm, an' his bleared e'en look bricht,
When he cracks o' the days when he first gaed to woo.
His stories auld farrant, that age will aye warrant,
The youngsters will mind when he's low in the mools; Ere by years he was bent a' their gutchers he kent,— Wi' maist o' them Davie had gane to the schules.
The carl's cantie an' crouse, but at times unco douse,
He feels himsel' day by day wearin' awa:
The saut tears rin doun ower his time-furrowed cheeks
When thochts seem to rest where his hopes are hung a'.
In the gloamin' o' life, far awa frae a' strife,
May we bide the fate that awaits us a' soon,
As the sun at the gowden-cloud gates o' the West
Seems to linger awee afore it gangs doon!
AE ye seen on the road the pawkie auld tod,
How driving his nag to some puir body's hame!
The wee snuffie foutre looks mair like a souter
Than ane wha feels big wi' M. D. at his name,
This odd thing o' nature, sae scrimpit in stature,
Has eidently keepit but ae end in view;
By sair wames an' stitches he's made a' his riches,
An' fast frae mere naething to somebody grew.
This wonderfu' Buchan has got a big spleuchan,
In which he rows up a' his doses an' bills:
There's disease in the touch o' its auld creeshie pouch.
An' death is aft found in his nostrums and pills.
Wi' pechan an' puffin', an' hostin' an' snuffin',
Ye'll a' ken fu' weel when he's at your room door:
It's
aye, "How's a' wi' ye? I'm sae glad to see ye;
Ye ne'er a' your days lookit better afore."
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