Poetry Archives

As I gang roon’ the kintra-side
Amang the young an’ auld,
I marvel at the things I see
An’ a’ the lees I’m tauld.
There’s Mistress-weel, I winna say:
I wadna hurt her pride,—
But speerits hae a guff, gude-wife,
Nae peppermints can hide.

Then there’s the carle I said maun bide
In bed or I cam’ back,
An’ frae the road I saw him fine
Gang dodgin’ roond a stack;
I heard him pechin’ up the stair
As I cam’ in the door—
But Faith! My lad was in his bed
An’ ettlin’ for to snore.

An’ here’s a chap that needs a peel,
He chaws it roon’ an’ roon’,
He’s narra’ i’ the swalla’, an’
He canna get it doon.
Yet whiles his swalla’s wide eneuch,
The muckle ne’er-dae-weel,
Gin it had aye been narra’er
He hadna nott the peel.

Ye tend them a’, baith great an’ sma’,
Frae cradle to the grave,
An’ add to sorrows o’ your ain
The tribbles o’ the lave,
An’ yet ye find they’re a’ the same,
When human natur’s watched,
It’s no’ ill deeds they haud as wrang—
The sin o’t ’s when they’re catched.