Classic Poem

O ken ye auld Janet's bit hamilt made biggin',
The wa's stievely souther'd wi' gude claut an' clay,
A slopit wud lum, an' a twisted saugh riggin',
An' roof cozy theekit wi' moss-cover'd strae.
An auld hollow'd trough-stane, to haud the hen's drink in,
Aside her bit seatie stands close by the door;
An' thro' her wee winnock at night is seen blinkin',
A lowe that will guide ye for miles ower the muir.

Gae round now, an' look at her bonnie bit yardie,
Weel fill'd wi' potatoes,—troth Janet fends weel;
She shears a' the hairst to a kind neibour lairdie,
Wha keeps her bit ark aye weel fill'd wi' aitmeal.
On our wee village common her cooie gangs feedin',
The ne'er ane says, “Janet, how daur ye do sae?”
She works her ain stockings, an' spins her ain cleedin',
And keeps hersel' tosh frae the tap to the tae.

'Twad do your heart guid to gang into her hoosie,
And see how it's keepit sae toshy and clean;
The dominie paps in, to read her the news aye,
She's bright in the mind, tho' she's dim in the een.
Her wee bit black cat, an' the dominie's doggie,
Sit cuddlin' thegither upon the hearthstane;
The hens cackle in, an' pick out their left coggie,
An' ilka dumb thing claims the hoose as its ain.

Her cozy box-bed, and her weel polish'd awmrie,
Wi' massy brass handles a' shining sae braw;
Her shelf-fu' o' pewter, a' glancing like glaumrie,
An' braw bawbee pictures nail'd round on the wa'.
But that claspit Bible's the chief pride o' Janet,
Its wooden brods wrappit in black leather skin;
Her grandfather preached 'mang the mountains upon it,
An' that's a' she's left now to brag o' her kin.

Auld Janet's alane, an' she never was married,
Though askit by mony, she buckled wi' nane;
Folks say she ance lo'ed, but her love it miscarried,
Her joe gaed to sea, she ne'er saw him again.
Yet, ah! her warm breast is a wellspring o' feeling,
Her kindness like sunbeams she showers on us a';
And, oh! when cauld death to her cottage comes stealing,
God help her puir neighbours when Janet's awa'.