Classic Poem

Clean dead an' gane—beneath this stane
Aul' Janet lies, o' Torry,
Life warm'd her blude, an' hale she stood
Till time saw her right hoary.

Weel lo'ed by a', she gaed fu' braw,
Clean, snod an' wondrous gawsey;
A sonsier dame, or sappier wame,
Ne'er hotcht alangst the cawsey.

Her blythsome bield, to ilka chield
Wha bare a Pack, was fenny,
Whare safe an' soun, they might lie down,
Syne rise an' pay their penny;

Till spitefu' death clos'd up her breath,
An' a' our daffin hum'elt;
For, thro' the head, he shot her dead,
An' down poor Janet tum'elt.

Ye Pedlars now, O mournfu' view!
This stane rear'd by a brither,
And as ye pass, greet owre the grass
That co'ers your auld kind mither;

For me (O deer! the waefu' tear
Starts at the dismal story)
I'll gar ilk vale sad echoing wail,
That Janet's dead o'Torry.