Skeely Kirsty
A stane-cast fae the clachan heid
An auld feal dyke enclosed a reed
O’ garden grun’, where flower an’ weed
In spring grew first aye;
An’ there the humble hauddin’ steed
O’ Skeely Kirsty.
Upon the easin’ sods a fou
Thick-leaved an’ sappy yearly grew,
Which, for a scrat or scabbit mou’,
Beat aught in “Buchan”;
An’ draughts fae herbs she used to brew
That drank like brochan.
To heal a heid, or scob a bane,
To ease a neebour’s grippit wean,
Or thoom a thraw, there wasna ane
Could e’er come near her;
Nae income, fivver, hoast, nor nane
Would ever steer her.
She cured for pleasure, nae for fees;
Healed man an’ beast wi’ equal ease:
She gae a lotion for the grease
To Spence the carrier,
That cured his mear, when the disease
Gaed ower the farrier.
Was there a corp to streck or kist,
She aye was foremost to assist;
She grat to think “how he’d be miss’t,
Sae good and gifted”!
Syne handed roon’ anither taste
Afore they lifted.
Ae morn grim Death—that poacher fell—
Gat Kirsty in his girn hersel’;
Nae epitaph her virtues tell,
It needs nae vreetin’:
On ae thing maistly Fame will dwell—
Her gift o’ greetin’.