8
Around whose brown wa’s their forefathers repose,
Whose half-buried tombs their quiet actions disclose—
Where neebours forgather, and news hear an’ tell,
Till conven’d i’ the kirk by the toll o’ the bell.
You’ll see Nancy there in blue winsey hame-made,
Her mither in poplin, an’ braw scarlet plaid;
A lesson, I trow, for yon dame at Drumlin,
Wha brags an’ abuses her neebours an’ kin,
An’ flees, like a lady, the hail kintra throw,
While her poor mither lives—we daurna say how!
But Nancy was train’d up in Modesty’s ways,
And in paths little kent to the young now-a-days,
Where Truth an’ Religion are sweetly combin’d,
As guides to our actions, an’ lights to our mind!
Should Nancy be frank, as I doubtna she’ll be—
(But that ye may guess by the glance o’ her e’e),
You snould aften gae inwith, an’ speir how she fens—
Ye’ll aiblins be lucky—there’s naebody kens!
Speak aft to her mither in praise o’ the days
She herdit an’ sang ’mang the green cover'd braes,
For, as youngsters delight i’ the warld to shine,
Auld folks smile an’ wonder o’er days o'langsyne.
Sae, Jamie, be tentie, be honest, an’ kind,
An’ do what you can to win Nancy’s sweet mind,
For its weel worth your trouble; an’ this I can tell—
''Gin I were a wanter, I’d court her mysel’!"
