Auld Ettrick John

There dwalt a man on Ettrick side,
An honest man I wat was he,
His name was John, an' he was born
A year afore the thretty-three.

He wed a wife when he was young,
But she had dee'd, and John was wae ;
He wantit lang, at length did gang
To court Nell Brunton o' the Brae.

Auld John cam daddin' down the hill,
His arm was waggin' manfullye,
He thought his shadow look'd nae ill,
As aft he keek'd aside to see ;
His shoon war four punds weight a-piece,
On ilka leg a ho had he,
His doublet strang was large an' lang,
His breeks they hardly reach'd his knee ;
His coat was thread about wi' green,
The moths had wrought it muckle harm,
The pouches war an ell atween,
The cuff was fauldit up the arm ;
He wore a bonnet on his head,
The bung upon his shoulders lay,
An' by its neb ye wad hae read
That Johnnie view'd the milky way :
For Johnnie to himsell he said,
As he came duntin' down the brae,
" A wooer ne'er should hing his head,
But blink the breeze an' brow the day ;"
An' Johnnie said unto himsell,
" A wooer risks nae broken banes ;
I'll tell the lassie sic a tale
Will gar her look twa gates at anes."

But yet, for a' his antic dress,
His cheeks wi' healthy red did glow ;
His joints war knit and firm like brass,
Though siller-grey his head did grow.
An' John, although he had nae lands,
Had twa gude kie amang the knowes ;
A hunder punds in honest hands,
An' sax-an-thretty doddit yowes.

An' Nelly was a sonsy lass,
Fu' ripe an' ruddy was her mou',
Her een war like twa beads o' glass,
Her brow was white like Cheviot woo ;
Her cheeks war bright as heather-bells,
Her bosom like December snaw,
Her teeth war whiter nor egg-shells,
Her hair was like the hoody craw.
" In another edition the conclusion of the Song stands thus;
" Gudewife," quo John, as he sat down,
I'm come to court your daughter Nell ;
An' if I die immediately
She shall hae a' the gowd hersel,
An' if I chance to hae a son,
I'll breed him up a braw divine ;
An' I'll provide for a' the lave,
Although we should hae aught or nine,"

Wi' little say he wan the day,
She soon became his bonnie bride ,
But ilka joy is fled away
Frae Johnnie's cantie ingle side.
She frets, an' greets, an' visits aft,
In hopes some lad will see her hame ;
But never ant' will be sae daft
As tent auld Johnnie's flisky dame.

John crackit o' his bob-tail'd yowes ;
He crackit o' his good milk-kie,
His kebbucks, hams, an' cogs o' brose,
An' siller out at trust forby ;
An' aye he show'd his boordly limb,
As bragging o' his feats sae rare,
An' a' the honours paid to him
At kirk, at market, or at fair.

Wi' sicklike say he wan the day,
Nell soon became his dashin' bride
But ilka joy soon fled away
Frae Johnnie's canty ingle side;
An' John will be a gaishen soon ;
His teeth are frae their sockets flown ;
The hair's peeled aff his head aboou ;
His face is milk-an'- water grown :
His legs, that firm like pillars stood,
Are now grown tooui an' unco sraa' ;
She's rewed him sair o' flesh an' bluid,
An' peace o' mind — the warst of a".

Let ilka lassie tak a man,
An' ilka callan tak a wife ;
But youth wi' youth gae hand in hand,
Or time the sweetest joys o' life.
Ye men whase heads are turning grey,
Wha to the grave are hasting on,
Let reason aye your passion sway,
An' mind the fate o' Ettrick John.

An" a' ye lasses, plump an' fair,
Let pure affection guide your hand,
Nor stoop to lead a life o' care
Wi' withered age for gear or land.
When ilka lad your beauty slights,
An' ilka smile shall yield to wae,
Ye 'll mind the lang an' lanesome nights
O' Nell the Lassie o' the Brae.

For there was fretting late an' air,
An' something aye a- wanting still,
The saucy taunt an' bitter jeer —
Now, sic a life does unco ill.

An' John will be a gaishen soon ;
His teeth are frae their sockets flown ;
The hair's peel'd aff his head aboon ;
His face is milk- an'- water grown ;
His legs, that firm like pillars stood,
Are now grown toom an' unco sma' ;
She's rewed him sair o' flesh an' blood
An' peace o' mind, the warst of a'.

May ilka lassie understand
In time the duties of a wife ;
But youth wi' youth gae hand in hand,
Or time the sweetest joys o' life.
Ye men whase heads are turning grey,
Wha to the grave are hastin' on,
Let reason a' your passions sway,
An' mind the fate o' Ettrick John.

Ye lasses, lightsome, blithe, an' fair,
Let pure affection win the hand ;
Ne'er stoop to lead a life o' care
Wi' doited age, for gear or land.
When ilka lad your beauty slights,
An' ilka blush is broke wi' wae,
Ye'll mind the lang an' lanesome nights
O' Nell, the lassie o' the Brae.