Blithe Jenny sees the visit’s no ill ta’en;
The father craks of horses, pleughs, and kye.
The youngster’s artless heart o’erflows wi’ joy,
But blate an’ laithfu’, scarce can weel behave;
The mother, wi’ a woman’s wiles, can spy
What makes the youth sae bashfu’ an’ sae grave;
Weel-pleas’d to think her bairn’s respected like the lave.
But now the supper crowns their simple board,
The halesome parritch, chief o’ Scotia’s food:
The soupe their only hawkie does afford,