Classic Poem

O do you mind the auld shop, Dan?
They've scarcely left a hint —
Where Banjo and meself, lang syne,
Brot our furse books to print.
They've partly left the auld front, Dan,
But that is going too —
An' sae I sadly sing the sang:
" The Auld Shop an' the New! "

Twa boxes 'neath the window-sills
Stood open to the glare,
An' soiled and tattered Secon'-Han'
Took dust, or fluttered there.
Twa cards stood on the pavement stanes,
Writ large for great an' sma',
Wi' ALL IN THIS BOX SAXPENCE , Dan,
An A' IN THIS BOX TWA .

Our furse bukes made them publishers
Weel kent throughout the wirl —
The young chief gave his leg a fling
And gie'd his pipes a skirl:
He took those boxes from the door
In all his prideful sin,
And ca'ed a saw-and-hammer man
To board the spaces in.

Depar-r-tments grew by yards since then,
The shelves have run by miles,
But, save his winsome selling smile,
The Black Chief seldom smiles.
And mony a time he thinks an' sighs,
An' longs, wi' bitter pain,
(As Banjo put it aince) to see
Those boxes back again!

We had no blue agreements then
To blaw us North and South,
For, when I made anither buke,
We went by word o' mouth.
Then I'd gang hame and gang to bed,
An' he'd sit up an' write —
An' what we signed at morn was not
The things we said at night.

He was a bonny leer, Dan —
Gie him the time to think —
And waur than a' the lawyer clerks
When he took pen and ink.
But neither party said a word,
And neither soul was vext,
For gin he had me ane year, Dan,
I sure had him the next.

A big bird telt me, Dan, when furse
He fixed his furse shop right,
An' stock't the shelves wi' Secon'-Han',
He'd aft gang back at night
An' light an' tak a candle roun',
An' tak it roun' again,
An' pinch himsel' tae prove it true
That it was a' his ain!

An', losh! how he lo'ed Dymock's, Dan!
Wi' luve surpassing sin —
An' upstarts — as, in my ain time,
He lo'ed the Bulletin .
An' do you mind the priest wha came,
An', wi' a father's air,
Bade him gang doon to Dymock's, Dan,
An' get some wrinkles there?

He wadna serve that priest agen —
Sent Wymark when he'd come —
Lord! how the young chief hated him
Wi' hate that went to Rome.
(He prided his arrangement, Dan —
From pamphlet up to tome —
An' warked on it by candle-light,
An' warked on it at home.)

He didna ken that priest wad gang
To Dymock's, peerin' through,
An' say he kent his father, Dan,
His father's father too,
An' ask him why he didna gang
To see how it was done —
An' get some hints to clear his mess —
At Angus Robertson.

An' they importit skeletons
In those auld days, lang dead,
An' kept them (where we used to crack)
In boxes, in the shed:
A skull, an' half a skeleton,
Frae places oversea,
To sell to prentice sawbones at
Oor Univairsity.

Do you mind how I bought ane, Dan,
An' showed it everywhere,
An' tuk it hame to orniment
Ma dressing-table there;
An' how the landlord cast me oot
Upon the pavement stane? —
Because it scared the landlady
An' she was sax months gane!

Do you mind how I sel't my ain?
You bot it on the chance —
We drew a firm agreement up,
Five shillings in advance! —
To hae a night wi' Robbie Burns;
An', after years of fret,
The only harm I wish you, Dan,
You'll live to claim it yet.

O do you min' the day when, full
Of poetry an' grief —
An' a' because I lo'ed him weel —
I longed to fight the chief?
I'd fight Maccallum, sober times,
The chief when I was tight —
Do you mind how I greeted, Dan,
Because he wadna fight?

Maccallum steered me to the shed
Behin' (lang vanished, too),
An' said " Exactly! " ilka time
An' gie'd his promise true;
He soothed me there wi' promises
Sae cunning, smooth, an' sly —
He tauld me that the chief would come
An' fight me by-an'-by!

O do you min' the morn I brot,
Like bottle by the throat,
The " Star o' Australasia, " Dan? —
The graundest thing I wrote.
O'Connor's pillar-boxes, Dan,
Went reeling doon the Street —
Drunk wi' deevine afflatus, Dan,
I cudna keep ma feet!

They helped me to the shed behind,
Those preenting Philisteens,
An' proodly spread for me a bed
O' dusty magazines.
They gie'd me something on account,
An' something for my cough,
An' left me there all day to sleep
The inspiration off.

O do you mind the auld lees, Dan,
The dear old lees of auld? —
The dear auld lees that warmed the heart,
Nor left the pockets cauld.
But now they've got braw legal lees
In red an' black an' blue;
An' sae I sadly sing the sang,
" The Auld Lees, an' the New! "

The chief has grown more plausible,
More polished an' polite,
An' a' the customers he kens
Are " straight " men, Dan, or " white " .
(Sma' blame) so lang's the bawbees come,
He never draws the line.
Gin a' he kens are white men, Dan,
Gie me some black in mine.

We spoke and wrote of a' things plain,
Left naething understood.
There were twa bards in a' the land,
But baith o' them were gude....
Now Bush Bards flock to Redfern, Dan,
The sinfu' toon to see,
An' publishers hae nephews there
Wi' uncles in Feegee.

They publish bukes to praise bukes up,
And ithers to condemn —
They publish bukes on ither bukes
And ither bukes on them.
They publish bukes on garden stuff,
An' how to roast an' scald —
Twixt midwif'ry an' poetry
Poor Shenstone's gangin' bald!

They caught a braw new partner, Dan,
An' banked his gear away;
Down columns ruled in red an' black
He runs his beak all day,
Like chalk-marked rooster mesmerized —
I dinna like his looks;
But, maist the time, you canna tell
His backside from his books.

An' Wymark's grown more hatchet-faced
An' white about the gills;
Wi' musty food for reading runts
The table-troughs he fills.
His nose is growing, ilka day,
More like a parson's snoot
That ploughs between the leaves to sniff
The Social Evil oot.

He's got a braw new Gallery,
Wi' skylights in the air —
An' one square foot of polished floor
Worth all the pictures there!
The folk gang peerin' round all day,
A bitter payin' farse —
He doesna' ken a painting, Dan,
Frae a painted monkey's — — !

I didna mean it that way, Dan —
We a' must cheat to earn —
He doesna ken a picture from
A painted monkey's stern.
The female baboon wha he's got,
An' the public ken nae mair;
An' a' day lang the fules peer round,
An' some are fleeced fu' sair.

Your auld desk's gane, for privy seats,
That held my I.O.U.
(I sing the auld deposites, Dan,
The auld anes, an' the new).
The weel-worn stair is taken down
To fit the Stroan Saloon —
An' you awa in Scotlan', Dan,
When a' these things were dune.