It was not her face, or dress, or riches,
It was not a heart pierced through with stitches—
'Twas the glamour of more than a hundred witches
That brought me a bargain like Janet.
O when, in the spring I return from the plough,
And fain at the ingle would bask at its low,
Her bauchle is off, and I 'm sure of a blow,
Or a kick, if her foot is within it.
No thrift she is plying, no cakes she is dressing,
No babe of her bosom in fondness caressing;
Be up she, or down she, she 's ever distressing
The core of my heart with her bother.
For a groat, for a groat with goodwill I would sell her,
As the bark of the oak is the tan of her leather,
And a bushel of coals would avail but to chill her,
For a hag can you shew such another?
No tooth in her head, and a squint in her eye,
At the dusk of the day, when her choler is high,
The bairns, nay, the team I 've unhalter'd, they fly,
And leave the reception for me.
O hi, O hu, she 's sad for scolding,
O hi, O hu, she 's too mad for holding,
O hi, O hu, her arms I 'm cold in,
And but a poor wittol to see!
KENNETH MACKENZIE.
Kenneth Mackenzie was born in 1758, at Caisteal Leanir, near Inverness. By his parents, who were possessed of considerable means, he was well educated at the best schools in his native district. He became a seaman in his seventeenth year; and while on board composed verses as a relief to labour, and for the entertainment of his shipmates. In 1789 he quitted the seafaring life, and commenced to itinerate for subscribers to enable him to publish his poems. Through the influence of the Earl of Buchan, to whom he was recommended by his talents, he procured an officer's commission in the 78th Highland Regiment. He latterly accepted the situation of Postmaster in a provincial town in Ireland. The date of his death is unknown, but he is understood to have attained an advanced age. His habits were exemplary, and he was largely imbued with feelings of hospitality.
THE SONG OF THE KILT.
My darling is the philabeg,
With scarlet hosen for the leg,
And the spotted curtal coat so trig,
And the head blue-bonneted.
The wimpled kilt be mine to wear,
Confusion take the breechen gear,
My limbs be fetterless and bare,
And not like Saxon donnot-led.[16]