The Beggar.
[T. Mouncey Cunningham.]
Wha's this, bedight in tatter'd claes,
Comes loutin' owre a sturdy rung,
Wi' cloutit wallets fore and aft,
And at his belt a gully hung?
Deep is the glen wi' drifted snaw,
And keen the wind blaws owre the hill;
Ye downa up Borinairoch gang,
The nippin' cauld your blude will chill.
Come in, an' share the kindly bleeze,
Whare feckless eild his bouk may warm,
Come in, an' share the frien'ly beild,
To shield thee frae the bitter storm.
Ye mauna trow that ilka Scot
Is reft o' pity's haly flame:
Auld neiber, gi'e's your shiverin' nieve,
An' mak' my lanely ha' your hame.
Now, though the scone our Leezy beuk
Was toastit nice as scone cou'd be,
An' though our Crummy's aften roos'd,
The milk nor scone he doughtna pree;
But glowr'd, as gin the awsome hour
Drew near, to close his yirthly woe;
Like some auld aik, before the storm
Has laid its ancient honours low.
Tell me, auld neiber, where ye wan
That rousty blade, an' honest scar?
I trow ye've been on mony a field,
Amid the horrid din o' war?
He couldna speak—a deadly smile
Play'd on his looks serenely dour!
An' ere we wist, the vet'ran auld,
A lifeless corse lay on the floor!