THE
LOSS OF THE PACK.
‘Bout-gates I hate, quo' girning Maggy Pringle
Syne harl'd Watty, greeting, thro' the ingle.
Since this fell question seems sae lang to hing on
In twa-three words I‘11 gie ye my opinion.
I wha stand here, in this bare scoury coat,
Was ance a Packman wordy mony a groat:
I‘ve carried Packs as big's your meikle table
I've scarted pats, and sleepet in a stable:
Sax pounds I wadna' for my pack ance ta'en,
And I could bauldly brag ‘twas a' mine ain.
Ay! thae were days indeed, that gart me hope
Aiblins, thro' time, to warsle up a shop:
And as a wife aye in my noddle ran
I kend my Kate wad grapple at me than.
O Kate was past compare! sic cheeks! sic een!
Sic smiling looks, were never, never seen.
Dear, dear I lo'ed her, and whane'er we met,
Pleaded to have the bridal-day but set:
