10 THE LOSS O' THE PACK. A TRUE TALE. Bout-gates I hate, quo' girning Maggy Pringle, Syne harled Watty, greeting, through the ingle, Since this fell question seems sae lang to hing on, In twa-three words I'll gie ye my opinion. I wha stand here, in this bare seoury coat, Was ance a packman, wordy mony a groat: I've carried packs as big's your meikle table; I've scarted pats, and sleepit in a stable: Sax pounds I wadna' for my pack ance ta'en, And I could bauldly brag 'twas a mine ain. Aye! thae were days indeed, that gart me hope, Aiblins, through time, to warsle up a shop: And as a wife aye in my noddle ran, I ken'd any 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: Stappit her pouehes fu' o' prins and laces, And thought mysel' weel paid wi' twa-three kisses; Yet still she put it aff frae day to day, And aften kindly in my lug wad say, "Ae half year langer is na unco stop, We'll marry then, and syne set up a shop." O, Sir, but lasses words are saft and fair, They soothe our griefs, and banish ilka care; Wha wadna toil to please the lass he loe's? A lover true minds this in a' he does. Finding her mind was thus sae firmly bent, And that I couldna get her to relent,
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