The Auld Goodman, or, The Goodwife Victorious/The Auld Goodman, or, The Goodwife Victorious

THE AULD GOODMAN.

LATE in an ev'ning forth I went,
⁠a little before the ſun gaed down,
And there I chanc'd by accident,
⁠to light on a battle new begun:
A man and his wife were fa'n in ſtrife,
⁠I canna well tell you how it began;
But ay ſhe wail'd her wretched life,
⁠and cry'd, ever, alake my auld goodman.

HE.

Thy auld goodman that thou talks of,
⁠the country kens where he was born,
Was but a ſilly poor vagabond,
⁠and ilka ane leugh him to ſcorn;
For he did ſpend and mak an end,
⁠of that his forefathers wan,
He gart the poor ſtand frae the door,
⁠ſay tell me nae mair of thy auld good man.

SHE.

My heart, alake! is liking to break,
⁠when I think on my winſome John,
His blinken eye, and his gait ſae free,
⁠was naething like thee, thou dozen'd drone.
His roſy face, and flaxen hair,
⁠and a ſkin as white as ony ſwan,
Was large and tall, and comely withal,
⁠and thou'll ne'er be like any auld goodman.

He) Why doſt thou 'pleen? I thee maintain;
⁠for meal and mawt thou diſna want;
Bur thy wild bees I canna pleaſe,
⁠now when our geer gins to grow ſcant.
Of houſehold ſtuff thou haſt enough,
⁠thou wants for neither pat nor pan;
Of ſicklike ware he left thee bare,
⁠fae tell nae mair o' thy auld goodman.

She.) Yes, I may tell, and fret myſel',
⁠to think on theſe blythe days I had,
When he and I together lay
⁠in arms into a weel made bed;
But now I ſigh and may be ſad,
⁠thy courage is cauld, thy colour wan,
Thou faulds thy feet, and fa's aſleep,
⁠and thou'll ne'er be like my auld goodman.

Then coming was the night fae dark;
⁠and gane was a' the light o' day;
The carl was fear'd to miſs his mark,
⁠and therefore wad nae langer ſtay.
Then up he gat, and he ran his way,
⁠I trow the wife the day ſhe wan,
And ay the o'erword o' the fray,
⁠was ever, alake! my auld goodman.