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By Sarah Leech

Nae mair I tune my rustic reed,

O’er hill and dale whare lambkins feed,
For I maun deck in mourning weed,
And sigh alane,
While tears pour forth like amber bead,
Since Kate is gane.

Ye clatt’ring wives that weel like news,
Come join in grief wi’ my poor muse,
For Kate could gi’e, tho’ quite recluse,
Clash to ilk ane -
Nane pass’d her door without their dues,
But now she’s gane.

She vow’d she had nae thoughts o’ greed,
And strove her innocence to plead,
But aye her tongue gaed at full speed,
Baith day and night
In hopes she might contention breed -
Her sole delight.

She talk’d o’ folk wi’ seeming grace;
Could colour lies wi’ time and place,
And to speak fair before their face,
She ne’er was slack;
Tho’ well their failings she could trace,
Behin’ their back.

Come, Peg, let fa’ the tribute tear,
Upon your guid auld auntie’s bier,
You ha’e na langer cause to fear,
Her ban or switch,
Your crown nae mair the marks shall wear
Of her auld crutch.

Nae body this poor wight could spare,
Frae scandal she could ne’er forbear;
As flies light on the place that’s sair,
With wounds contented,
So she their failings a’ laid bare,
And mair invented.

But now neglected low she lies,
Nane to perform her obsequies,
Wi’ heaving breast and wat’ry eyes
Nae friend I see -
A Christian fun’ral nane devise,
Poor Kate for thee.

Alas! she now is laid fu’ low,
In the cauld kirk-yard of Raphoe,
Where I ilk market day shall go,
As she did crave,
Nor drop the tribute tear of woe
Upon her grave.

But yet my wish, and farewell prayer,
To Robin wha has her in care,
Is, that he’ll keep her safely there,
Lest she should rise,
For nane her rackle tongue could bear,
Or cursed lies.