THE GARDENER.
AN OLD SCOTCH BALLAD.
A maiden stude in her bouir door,
As jimp as a willow wand;
When by there came a gardener lad
Wi’ a primrose in his hand.
“O ladye, are ye single yet,
Or will ye marry me?
Ye’se get a’ the flouirs in my garden,
To be a weed[[10]] for thee.”
“I love your flouirs,” the ladye said,
“But I winna marry thee;
For I can live without mankind,
And without mankind I’ll dee.”
“You shall not live without mankind,
But you shall marry me:
And among the flouirs in my garden,
I’ll shape a weed for thee.
“The lilye flouir to be your smock;
It becomes your bodie best;
Your head shall be bushit wi’ the gellye-flouir;
The primrose in your breist.
“Your gown sall be o’ the sweet-william
Your coat o’ the cammovine;
Your apron o’ the seel of downs—
Come smile, sweetheart o’ mine!
“Your gloves shall be o’ the green clover,
All glitterin to your hand;
Weil spread ower wi’ the blue blawort
That grows among corn-land.
“Your stockings shall be o’ the cabbage-leaf,
That is baith braid and lang;
Narrow, narrow at the kute,[[11]]
And braid, braid at the braune.[A*]
“Your shoon shall be o’ the gude rue red,
I trow it bodes nae ill;
The buckles o’ the marygold—
Come smile, sweetheart, your fill!”
“Young man, ye’ve shapit a weed for me
Amang the simmer flouirs;
Now I will shape anither for thee
Amang the winter showirs.
“The snaw so white shall be your shirt,
It becomes your body best;
The cold east wind shall wrap your heid,
And the cold rain on your breist.
“The steed that you shall ride upon
Shall be the weather snell;
Weil bridled wi’ the northern wind,
And cold, sharp shouirs o’ hail.
“The hat you on your heid shall wear
Shall be o’ the weather grey;
And aye when ye come into my sicht,
I’ll wish ye were away.”
Anonymous.