SONG, ‘POVERTY PARTS GOOD COMPANY’

For an old Scotch Air

When my o’erlay was white as the foam o’ the lin,
And siller was chinkin my pouches within,
When my lambkins were bleatin on meadow and brae,
As I went to my love in new cleeding sae gay,
Kind was she, and my friends were free,
But poverty parts good company.

     How swift passed the minutes and hours of delight,
     When piper played cheerly, and crusie burned bright,
     And linked in my hand was the maiden sae dear,
     As she footed the floor in her holyday gear! 
        Woe is me; and can it then be,
        That poverty parts sic company?

     We met at the fair, and we met at the kirk,
     We met i’ the sunshine, we met i’ the mirk;
     And the sound o’ her voice, and the blinks o’ her een,
     The cheerin and life of my bosom hae been. 
        Leaves frae the tree at Martinmass flee,
        And poverty parts sweet company.

     At bridal and infare I braced me wi’ pride,
     The broose I hae won, and a kiss o’ the bride;
     And loud was the laughter good fellows among,
     As I uttered my banter or chorused my song;
        Dowie and dree are jestin and glee,
        When poverty spoils good company.

     Wherever I gaed, kindly lasses looked sweet,
     And mithers and aunties were unco discreet;
     While kebbuck and bicker were set on the board: 
     But now they pass by me, and never a word! 
        Sae let it be, for the worldly and slee
        Wi’ poverty keep nae company.

     But the hope of my love is a cure for its smart,
     And the spae-wife has tauld me to keep up my heart;
     For, wi’ my last saxpence, her loof I hae crost,
     And the bliss that is fated can never be lost,
        Though cruelly we may ilka day see
        How poverty parts dear company.

     THE KITTEN

     Wanton droll, whose harmless play
     Beguiles the rustic’s closing day,
     When, drawn the evening fire about,
     Sit aged crone and thoughtless lout,
     And child upon his three-foot stool,
     Waiting until his supper cool,
     And maid whose cheek outblooms the rose,
     As bright the blazing fagot glows,
     Who, bending to the friendly light,
     Plies her task with busy sleight,
     Come, show thy tricks and sportive graces,
     Thus circled round with merry faces: 
     Backward coiled and crouching low,
     With glaring eyeballs watch thy foe,
     The housewife’s spindle whirling round,
     Or thread or straw that on the ground
     Its shadow throws, by urchin sly
     Held out to lure thy roving eye;
     Then stealing onward, fiercely spring
     Upon the tempting, faithless thing. 
     Now, wheeling round with bootless skill,
     Thy bo-peep tail provokes