Loss of the Pack

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: Slapped her pouches fu’ o’ prins and laces, And thought mysel weel paid wi’twa three kisses Yet still she put it aff frae day ta day, And aften kindly in my lug wad say, “Ae half year langer is nae unco stop, “We’ll marry then, and syne set up a shop”.

O, Sir, but lasses words are saft and fair Ihey soothe our griefs, and banish ilka care; Wha wadna toil to please the lass he lo’es? A lover true minds this in a’ he does. Finding her mind was thus sae firmly bent, And that I cou’dna’ get her to relent, There was nought left, but quietly to resign, To heeze my pack for ae lang hard campaign; And as the Highlands was the place for meat, I ventur‘d there in spite of wind and weet. Cauld now the winter blew and deep the snaw For three haill days incessantly did blaw. Far in a muir, amang the whirling drift, Whar nought was seen but mountains and the lift, I lost my road, and wander‘d mony a mile, Maist dead wi' hunger, cauld, and fright, and toil.