Classic Poem

The fire we sat round on a cauld winter night —
Mysel' an' my dochters were spinnin' —
When in came the pedlar, wi' eelwand in hand,
And the sweat frae the bodie was rinnin'.
Wi' beck an' wi' bow, an' wi' " Goodness be here! "
He trampit in o'er to the ingle;
Syne open'd his pack fu' o' claes o' the best —
Wi' the sight o't my lugs they play'd tingle!

Fu' a' jokin' an' cracks was the slee, pawky loon —
Weel kent he how braw things becam' folk;
An' my dochters be praised till we cou'dna but buy;
For he ca'd a' our neighbors but sham folk.
The deil break his shanks! he had plenty o' news,
And he clatter'd, and coost me wi' glamour.
Till quarters I promised to gi'e for a night,
And to make our bien but-house his chaumer.

The morn I got up, as a gudewife should do, —
To packman there's naething to lippen, —
And soon followed after me Chirsty and Meg,
But Jean came na after them skippin'.
Where is she? why waits she? my youngest and best —
My ain Jean, my bonnie wee burdie —
Run awa? The light limmer — the diel break his banes —
Wi' the oily-tongued chapman, Tam Purdie!