I coft yestreen, frae Chapman Tarn, A snood of bonny blue, And promised when our trysting cam', To tie it round her brow. Oh no! sad and slow, The mark it winna' pass; The shadow of that weary thorn Is tethered on the grass. Oh, now I see her on the way, She's past the witch's knowe, She's climbing up the Browny's brae, My heart is in a lowe! Oh no! 'tis no' so, 'Tis glam'rie I have seen; The shadow of that hawthorn bush Will move na' mair till e'en. My book o' grace I'll try to read, Though conn'd wi' little skill, When collie barks I'll raise my head, And find her on the hill. Oh no! sad and slow, The time will ne'er be gane, The shadow of the trysting bush Is fixed like ony stane. SONG, 'POVERTY PARTS GOOD COMPANY' For an old Scotch Air When my o'erlay was white as the foam o' the lin, And siller was chinkin my pouches within, When my lambkins were bleatin on meadow and brae, As I went to my love in new cleeding sae gay, Kind was she, and my friends were free, But poverty parts good company. How swift passed the minutes and hours of delight, When piper played cheerly, and crusie burned bright, And linked in my hand was the maiden sae dear, As she footed the floor in her holyday gear! Woe is me; and can it then be, That poverty parts sic company? We met at the fair, and we met at the kirk, We met i' the sunshine, we met i' the mirk; And the sound o' her voice, and the blinks o' her een, The cheerin and life of my bosom hae been. Leaves frae the tree at Martinmass flee, And poverty parts sweet company. At bridal and infare I braced me wi' pride, The broose I hae won, and a kiss o' the bride; And loud was the laughter good fellows among, As I uttered my banter or chorused my song; Dowie and dree are jestin and glee, When poverty spoils good company. Wherever I gaed, kindly lasses looked sweet, And mithers and aunties were unco discreet; While kebbuck and bicker were set on the board: But now they pass by me, and never a word! Sae let it be, for the worldly and slee Wi' poverty keep nae company. But the hope of my love is a cure for its smart, And the spae-wife has tauld me to keep up my heart; For, wi' my last saxpence, her loof I hae crost, And the bliss that is fated can never be lost, Though cruelly we may ilka day see How poverty parts dear company. THE KITTEN