Isobel Booth, Hillhead of Cairnie, Skene

The mistress o' Tipperton, couthie and kind,
She winted fur naething that siller cud gie,
Wi only her chuckens, an calfies till tend,
There's nane hid as raft a doonsittin as she.

She'd a boddomless ladle, fur tinks on the scraun,
(Tho the nickums, she kent, waurna safe near a hen)
 Faur ithers wid show them the back o' a haun
She'd smooth doon her peenie, cry, “Come awa ben.”

Ilkie snocherin geet fand her door wis ajee,
For bannocks, or bosies, or buits gainst the wither,
An mony's the sharger, fin term-time fell tee,
Thocht, “Lord, 'twid be gran tae hae yon fur a mither.”

Bit fyles, in the dark o' the strae in the laft,
In the bield o' the byre, oot o' sicht o' the fowk,
As the kye licked their littlins, tender an aft,
The Mistress o' Tipperton grat like a gowk.

Her briest niver suckled, her care niver missed,
She thocht on a cradle, o' squallichin teem,
O' hope, lang laid by, like the shawl in the kist,
An the wecht o' the thocht, wis the wecht o' a steen.

Buskit wi garlands, an happit wi yird,
“Fit sorra?” fowk said, “for she niver kent wint.”
Bit the auld clockin hen, though it spak ne'r a wird,
Kent the richt an the wrang o't — a guid mither, tint.