Classic Poem

Is there ony that kens nae my auld uncle Watty,
Wi' 's buckled knee breekums an' three cockit hattie?
Is there ony that kens nae my auld auntie Matty,
Wi' 'r wee black silk cloak, and her red collar'd cattie?
O, auld uncle Watty,
An' auld aunty Matty,
Ye may gang whaur ye like, but their match ye'll ne'er see!

They've saved a' they hae, tho' they never were greedy,
Gang to their house hungry, they're sure aye to feed ye,
Gang to their house tatter'd, they're sure aye to cleed ye;
Oh! wha'll fill their place to the puir an' the needy?
O, auld uncle Watty,
An' auld aunty Matty,
Ye're kindly to a', but ye're kinder to me!

I mind nae o' mither, I mind nae o' faither,
Yet ne'er kent the ha'ein' or wantin' o' either,
For the puir orphan sprout that was left here to wither,
Gat uncle for faither,—gat aunty for mither.
O, auld uncle Watty,
An' auld aunty Matty,
Few orphans hae uncle and aunty like me!

An' didna my bosom beat fondly an' fou,
When up like an aik 'neath their nursin' I grew;
While a tear in their ee, or a clud on their brow,
Was aye sure to pierce my fond heartie richt through.
O, auld uncle Watty,
An' auld aunty Matty,
Ye're faither, ye're mither, ye're a' thing to me!

But luve play'd a pliskie, that maist rave asunder
Three hearts that ye'll no find the like in a hunder;
I married wee Mary, to a'body's wonder,
An' maistly had paid for my het-headed blunder—
For auld uncle Watty—
An' auld aunty Matty—
Vow'd they ne'er wad own either Mary or me.

But Mary's kind heart, aye sae coothy and slee,
Sune won the auld bodies as she had won me;
When our callant cam hame, to the kirk wi't cam she,
Ca'd it Watty—the auld folk sat bleer't in the ee.
An' auld uncle Watty,
An' auld aunty Matty,
Cam cuddlin' the wean hame 'tween Mary an' me.

An' wow but the callant grows buirdly an' strang,
There's nae Carritch question, nor auld Scottish sang,
But the loon screeds ye aff in the true Lowland twang,
I doubtna he'll beat his ain faither or lang;
For auld uncle Watty,
An' auld aunty Matty,
Are learnin' the callant as ance they did me.

Gae bring me the pinks o' your famed infant schules,
Whais wee pows are laden wi' newfangled rules,
Gif wee Watty dinna mak a' o' them fools,
I'll e'en gie ye leave to lay me in the mools:
An' auld uncle Watty,
An' auld aunty Matty,
May throw down their buiks an' gae booby for me.