Page:Elegy on the year eighty-eight.pdf/10

( 10 ) Mony a dainty flowerie springin’—

A’ war blyth but Colin Clout!

Thrice he thuds his tawny bosom,

Thrice he scratch’d his ravell’d pow,

Syne, despairing, down he throws him,

Gasping on the flow’ry know.

E’en his sheep, wi’ plaintive crying,

Seem’d to mourn a love sae true;

"Ah!" cries Colin, "sure I’m dying"—

"Baa!" cries ilka bruicket ewe!

"What is this!" cries Colin glowrin’

Glaiket-like a’ round about—

"Jenny, this is past endurin’—

"Death maun ease poor Colin Clout!

"Careless, see, my sheep they wander,

"How they fare, I canna tell;

"And while like a ghaist I dander,

"Scarcely do I ken mysell.

"Anes I was baith stout and strappin’,

"Brisk an’ blyth as lad cou’d be;

"O’ the green, or o’er a chappin,

"Nane cou’d laugh an’ sing like me.

"In a reel at penny weddin’s,

"Wha like me cou’d fling about?—