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’.