Page:Andromeda, and other poems - Kingsley (1858).djvu/176

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164
THE OUTLAW.
Nor I wadna be a merchant, mither, in his lang furred gown,Trailing strings o' footsore horses through the noisy dusty town;Louting low to knights and ladies, fumbling o'er his wares,Telling lies, and scraping siller, heaping cares on cares.
Nor I wadna be a soldier, mither, to dice wi' ruffian bands,Pining weary months in castles, looking over wasted lands.Smoking byres, and shrieking women, and the grewsome sights o' war—There's blood on my hand eneugh, mither; it's ill to make it mair.
If I had married a wife, mither, I might ha' been douce and still,And sat at hame by the ingle side to crack and laugh my fill;
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