To A Friend





When Trouble come my way,
And lands me in a pickle,
And makes me fret, then off I set,
And run for Mrs Nicol.
 
A pleasant person she,
Wi’ hands baith clean and clever,
For people such as she,
We thank our Gracious Giver.
 
In trouble she’s a queen,
As quate as any moose.
A’ things are sweet and clean,
Wen she’s aboot the hoose.
 
To thank her as I would like,
In language fine and grand,
I’ve got the heart but not the art,
But I know she’ll understand.
 
Her patient she attends,
With neither fuss nor flurry,
Whose mind thus eased,
Lies quite weel pleased,
And kens she needna worry.
 
Noo, these few lines to end,
(This rhyming job’s a hard ane.)
I’ll sign myself your friend,
And servant, William Jardine.

(Written by a grateful man, William Jardine to the midwife, my great grandmother, who delivered his baby.)