Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/The Auld Good-man

The Auld Good-Man.

Late in the evening forth I went
A little before the sun gaed down,
And there I chanced by accident,
To light on a battle new begun:
A man and his wife were fa'in' in a strife,
I canna weel tell ye how it began;
But aye she wailed her wrenched life,
Crying, Ever alake, mine auld good-man!

He.

Thy auld good-man, that thou tells of,
The country kens where he was born,
Was but a silly poor vagabond,
And ilka aue leugh him to scorn.
For he did spend and make an end
Of routh of gear his fathers wan;
He gart the poor stand frae the door;
Sae tell nae mair of thy auld good-man.

She.

My heart, alake! is liken to break,
When I think on my winsome John,
His blinken e'e, and gait sae free,
Was naething like thee, thou dozent drone;
Wi' his rosie face, and flaxen hair,
And skin as white as any swan,
He was large and tall, and comely withal,
Thou'lt never be like mine auld good-man.

He.

Why dost thou 'plain? I thee maintain;
For meal and mawt thou disna want:
But thy wild bees I canna please,
Now whan our gear 'gins to grow scant;
Of household stuff thou hast enough;
Thou wants for neither pot nor pan;
Of siclike ware he left thee bare:
Sae tell nae mair of thy auld good-man.

She.

Yes I may tell, and fret mysel',
To think on those blyth days I had,
Whan I and he together lay
In arms into a well-made bed:
But now I sigh and may be sad;
Thy courage is cauld, thy colour wan,
Thou faids thy feet, and fa's asleep;
Thou'lt never be like mine auld good-man.

Then coming was the night sae dark,
And gane was a' the light of day;
The carle was feared to miss his mark,
And therefore wad nae longer stay;