Classic Poem

Auld John Broon, he's a hunder near!
He says he'll be dead ere the tail o' the year;
But for twa or three years he has said the same,
And we ha'e him yet in our cosie hame —
A snug cottar hoose on the edge o' a muir,
Wi' a theekit ruif and an earthen fluir.

In the big arm-chair, by the ingle-cheek,
He sits a' day amid the blue reek;
His auld broad bonnet upon his croon,
And twa-three white locks stragglin' doon:
His big auld shune that were made lang syne,
Ere his feet and kuits began to crine;
His ribbit stockins o' a purple hue;
His cloutit knee-breeks, his auld coat o' blue,
Wi' buttons on't like the rising mune —
Gude sakes! that coat will ne'er gang dune! —
The lee-lang day, and aye the auld seat,
Wi' his hands on his staff, and his staff 'tween his feet,
And his chin on his hand, and his head bent doon,
Sunk into himsel', sits Auld John Broon.

His words are few; for he seems to care
But little for this warld and a' its gear:
It may be his mind is maist part awa'
To yon Heaven that will ere lang ha'e it a':
But at times it comes back, wi' a beauteous glow,
And ower his auld features seems to flow,
Laving them like a limpid stream,
While youth comes ower him like a dream
But it flushes awa', as it came, and then
He sinks back into himsel' again
And whiles he'll fa' into a dozing sleep,
Now licht and flickery, and now deep, deep;
Then he'll wauken and yawn, fu' aft and wide,
And shake his head slowly frae side to side,
And mutter strange things into himsel'
That to us hae neither head nor tail.
The bairns creep stealthily round his chair,
And look up wi' a wondersome air —
Wi' awe-struck e'e, and arch'd e'e-brou,
And staunin'-up hair, and gapin' mou'. —
He looks at them wi' a glitterin' e'e,
But ye canna weel tell whether he can see —
Though little he says, and does naething ava,
He is strangely felt by ane and a'.

Auld men and bairns are the gods of earth,
When ower auld or ower young to utter forth
The soul within them; for we feel
A presence that words could not reveal;
And they work mair deeply upon the heart
Than a learned man wi' a' his art:
A dottle auld carle, or a babbling wean,
Into the midst o' yon wise folk ta'en,
Wad absorb the thochts of every ane.
Had we een that could read, and heads that could learn,
We shud get deep lessons frae the auld man and bairn.

Auld John Broon, he sits at the fire;
Ye wad think he had nae ither desire,
But he's neither deaf nor blind outricht,
When on his dull hearin', or his dim sicht,
The voices and glances o' Nature alicht
On simmer days, when we are a' gane
To the field, and he sits dozing alane —
Wi' nane but the lassie to mind the pat,
Tak' care o' the bairns, or the like o' that —
A sun-glint bursts through the winnock-pane,
And fa's ower his feet, and on the hearth-stane;
It warms his heart, and he lifts his een,
That glitter as he looks up to the sunsheen:
And he harks! for the laverock's notes on high
Come doon like rain-draps fresh frae the sky;
And he hears the croak o' the passing craw,
Now harsh, now fading far awa';
And the clamour o' sparrows comes to his ear;
The keckle o' the hens, and chanticleer,
Flappin' his wings and crawin' sae shrill,
That he startles the gray rocks, asleep on the hill
Ilk thing bursts out into joyousness —
Wha could bide in the hoose on a day like this? —
E'en restless grows the auld man there,
And he langs to get out into the sweet air:
Then wi' his staff and the lassie thegither,
He reaches the door, leanin' on her shuither.
Ayont the door-cheek is a stane bench, where
She lats him cannily doon wi' care.

Bathed in sunsheen and balmy air,
He seems to enjoy the green earth ance mair,
Wakenin' frae out o' his aged swoon,
Maist thinkin' himsel' to be young John Broon! —
Were his limbs as they were wont to be,
He wad up and dance aboot wi glee:
His will loups up, but his banes keep him doon,
And tell him that he is auld John Broon!

Sweet day, ye ha'e dune what naething else can, —
Ye ha'e brought back the speerit o' this auld man
But it comes and goes as the weather may be;
He droops or looks up like the flower on the lea
And ower his existence he has nae power —
He is guided by the hand that guides the flower
Nae count, nae care, nae pain has he;
He never was ill, and he never will be;
And death will come saftly and close his e'e: —
Spirit slip up — body lie doon —
That will be the end of Auld John Broon.